A-Hole In One

Chapter 1

It was the first Monday in June and it was just starting to get light.  Even though the summer had unofficially started the prior week before on Memorial Day, it was still chilly and there was heavy dew on the grass.  The automatic sprinklers at the Diamond National Golf Club shooshed rhythmically to let the water soak into the golf course before the sun came up.

Monday was the day Diamond National was traditionally closed.  It gave the restaurant employees a day off and afforded a day for regular maintenance on the golf course without interfering with the golfers.  Diamond National was, for lack of a better term, the crown jewel in the real estate empire of the flamboyant, some would say infamous, real estate developer Jack Diamond.

Diamond had made, mostly for himself, countless millions building or renovating high end real estate in Metropolitan New York and in Florida, in many cases for the same clientele.  Everything was the highest quality and amenities, with a price tag to match, and all the projects had Diamond in the name.  Diamond Plaza Park Avenue was the latest chic address on the Upper East Side of Manhattan, with one-bedroom, one-bath apartments going for a mere $5 million and Diamond Harbour Boca Raton had two-bedroom, one-boat-slip townhomes starting at $10 million.  From there, prices went up to as much as a buyer could afford to spend, if not more.  It was rumored that the sheik of Abu Dhabi had bought a 10-bedroom, 2-yacht slip condo in Diamond Harbour Miami for $125 million.  Diamond would never confirm or deny even the most outrageous rumors of purchasers or sales prices in his projects, claiming that he respected the privacy of his clients.  The fact that the rumors existed only added to the cachet of the properties and led many to suspect, correctly, that Diamond himself was the source of much of the gossip.   

To say that Jack Diamond had a penchant for shameless self-promotion would be like saying that sometimes it gets a little warm in Death Valley during the summer.  Every new project was announced with some gimmick that could not be overlooked.  For the grand opening of his Diamond Plaza Hudson project, he had the battleship New Jersey towed from Camden to Jersey City for an invitation-only gala dinner in front of the building.  It was an event that everyone who was, or wanted to be, someone in New York society, i.e., potential customers, had to attend.  The climax of the evening was the New York Philharmonic playing the 1812 Overture with the battleship’s 16-inch guns providing the cannon fire.  Another truly amazing thing about that event was that Diamond managed to be in every photo of every celebrity or society couple that was published.

So long as people kept buying his properties, Diamond didn’t care whether or not people liked him or his image.  From a personal perspective, barring being arrested for molesting children, there was no such thing as bad publicity.  If his name was in the newspaper, on TV, or in the magazines by the grocery store checkout lines, he was happy, no matter what was said about him.  Publicity about his projects was another matter.  He did not want anyone anywhere to say that his projects were anything other than the best of the best.  To safeguard that part of his reputation, he made sure that no corners were cut on any construction or renovation project.  There was no need, since he knew he could charge an extra $1 million per unit to recover any extra costs.

Diamond had been married when he was young and divorced just as his real estate empire was taking off.  Being unattached, or at least unmarried, helped with publicity because any time he appeared in a photo with someone else, there was inevitable speculation in the gossip papers whether he was in a new relationship.  He frequently appeared at events, as well as paparazzi photo opportunities, with movie and music stars of all ages, business and society leaders and, more frequently, their adult children.  Diamond denied all rumored relationships, saying that he and whomever the person was were just friends, while hinting that they were a lot more.  Since he never remarried and never appeared to be in a relationship with any women, combined with the fact that his buildings consistently were featured in architectural design magazines without a credited designer, rumors had begun to circulate that he might be gay.  He likewise studiously avoided any questions about that as well.  When the question came up, he would invariably smile and change the subject.  The only thing he didn’t publicize was his birth date.  He looked somewhere between a worn-out 45 and a well-preserved 70, but never let on his precise age.

Because all of his projects seemed to make money, people were lining up to invest in his properties.  It was even more chic to be able to say that you were an investor in a Diamond project than living in one.  Serious real estate investors, however, stayed away.  Word quickly got out in the real estate community that because of the way Diamond set up his projects, investors were lucky to get their investment back and weren’t going to make money despite the high prices after all of the various management fees and other charges that went to Diamond himself were taken off the top.  Diamond had been sued a few times by disgruntled investors, unsuccessfully, because everything that Diamond took out was clearly spelled out in the contracts and fully disclosed.

Diamond National had opened the prior year.  Located in the horse country in western New Jersey, it was intended to be not just a golfing destination for the crème de la crème of metropolitan New York City business and society, but a national golfing destination as well.  Diamond purchased a failed country club through a straw man at a bankruptcy sale, then did a typically highly publicized $50 million makeover of the clubhouse and golf course.  Diamond had all of the memberships sold before the renovations were half finished.  Most of the memberships were corporate memberships bought by Fortune 500 companies headquartered in New Jersey and New York and investment bankers on Wall Street.  When rumors began circulating who had purchased the first few memberships, there was a rush to buy the rest when it became clear that Diamond National was going to be the place to casually put together business deals with lots of zeros at the end, or to rub elbows with people who did.  Diamond also had a unique guest policy which allowed legislators, congressmen, senators and judges who came as someone else’s guest to pick up their own tab for golfing and dining so they wouldn’t have to report gifts from members with whom they met or played golf.

The grand opening had been the first annual Diamond National Invitational, with the winner getting either $1 million in cash or a $5 million home on the golf course, which, figuring in the free publicity of a major pro golfer owning a house at the club, actually cost Diamond less than the $1 million in cash.

Memorial Day this year was kicked off with a member-guest best-ball golf tournament and cookout.  Diamond won the golf tournament because his guest had been the winner of the prior year’s Diamond National Invitational.  Also, not surprisingly, Diamond managed to get his picture both in the sports and the style sections of the New York Post.

The following Monday, the usual Monday maintenance was to take place and would involve mowing the greens and fairways, repairing unfilled divots from the prior weekend, and moving the holes and tees to make the course play differently.   However, mowing the greens was held up this Monday because on the seventh green was a lifeless, now water soaked, body of one of the members with part of the handle sand trap rake standing upright out of its chest.

* * *

So, what have we got?  Det. Elias Arnold of the Morris County Prosecutor’s Office asked as he got out of the golf cart at the seventh green at Diamond National.  Det. Arnold was known as Arnie to everyone except his mother.  The address of Diamond National was 1 Diamond Way, Peapack, New Jersey, which was in Somerset County, but the only part of the club actually in Somerset County was the entrance gate.  The rest was in Morris County, which gave the Long Valley Township Police Department and Morris County Prosecutor’s Office jurisdiction.  Riding in the back seat of the golf cart was Arnie’s sidekick, Jimmy Fingers D’Antonio.  Fingers was the Prosecutor’s Office’s electronics expert who got his nickname because of his fast fingers on the computer keyboard and, it was said, sensuous massages.  Fingers was along to take photographs of the crime scene.

The green had been cordoned off with yellow police tape.  An ambulance with its lights on was parked on the cart path.  Along with the EMTs who had arrived with the ambulance, there were three uniformed Long Valley police officers and two detectives on the scene along with a well-tanned 40-something man wearing a blue blazer and khaki pants, and another youngish Hispanic-looking man wearing green coveralls with Diamond National printed on the back.  By the time Arnie arrived on the scene, the sprinklers had been turned off, but the ground was still wet.

One of the Long Valley detectives and the man in the blazer met Arnie near the edge of the green.  George Ferrero, the detective said, pointing toward the dead body.  This is Skip Davis, the detective continued, pointing to the man in the blazer.  He’s the club manager. Arnie shook hands with both.

Mr. Ferrero was the Chairman of the Board of Fourth First New Jersey National State Bank, Davis said.

I see, Arnie said.  They all walked toward the body.  Ferrero was wearing red and blue madras plaid pants and a green shirt that now had a large dark blood stain on it caused by a broken piece of a sand trap rake standing up at a 45-degree angle in the middle of the stain. 

It looks like he was out here all night, the detective offered.  It doesn’t look like a robbery because his wallet, watch, and all of his jewelry is here.

Of course not, Davis said.  People aren’t robbed at Diamond National.

I assume that all the water and everyone walking around the body got rid of any footprints, Arnie said.

Sorry about that, the detective said.  There was no other way to get to him.

Shit happens, Arnie said.  Who found him? 

Miguel, Davis said, pointing to the man in the green overalls.  One of our groundkeepers.

What did he have to say?  Arnie asked.

I don’t know, the detective said.  Nobody speaks Spanish.

Jeez, Arnie said.  "Miguel, could I talk to you for a minute?" he called in Spanish.

"Sure, sir," Miguel said.

Arnie showed Miguel his badge and introduced himself.  "You found the body?"  Arnie asked in Spanish.

"Yes, sir.  My job was to mow the greens today.  I was driving the mower and when I drove up the hill, there he was."

"Where were you coming from?"

"That way," Miguel said, pointing down a cart path that came up a hill that Arnie guessed was from the next tee.

"Did you see anybody else around?"

"No, sir.  I was the first one out, as soon as the sprinklers went off."

"What time was that?"

"6:00 sharp."

"So when did you get up here?"

"I guess about 15, maybe 20 minutes later."

"So what did you do?"

"I got off the mower and came over to see what was going on.  I checked him out and he was definitely dead, so I called in to the garage on the walkie talkie.  Then I stuck around until the ambulance and the cops showed up."

"Were his clothes all wet when you got here?"

"Oh, yes, sir.  He was soaked through.  Am I in trouble, sir?"

"Did you kill him?"

Miguel turned white and started talking quickly, "No, no.  Not me.  I just found him there.  I don’t even know the guy."

"Calm down, Arnie said.  If you didn’t kill him, then you’re not in trouble as far as I’m concerned."

"Do you need me anymore, sir?  I need to get back to work.  I’m really behind schedule."

"I don’t need you anymore, but don’t take off just yet.  We need to take a few pictures of things just like they are and look around a little.  Just hang out unless there’s something you have to do back at the clubhouse or something."

"I think I’ll stay.  If I go back to the garage, Mr. Davis is just going to think I’m slacking off."

"Suit yourself," Arnie said.

What did he say?  Davis asked.

Nothing much, Arnie said.  Just that he drove up and there was the body.  Hey, Fingers, Arnie called.  You about done?

Just a couple more regular shots, Fingers called back,  then I want to do a 360.  A 360 was a technique that Fingers developed where he took still photographs in a full circle around himself, then put them together in his computer to make a seamless picture.

Is there a more quiet place for us to talk?  Arnie asked Davis.

Back in my office, in the clubhouse, Davis suggested.

Fingers, Arnie called again.  I need to talk to Mr. Davis here back in the clubhouse.  Could you coordinate the coordination with the guys and I’ll meet you back at the ranch?

Roger dodger that boss, Fingers said.  

* * *

Any reason Mr. Ferrero would have any business being out on the golf course in the middle of the night? Arnie asked as soon as they were settled in Davis’s office.  His office was what one would expect of a country club manager’s office – lots of dark wood, burgundy leather furniture and a large oriental rug in the middle of the floor.

Mr. Diamond likes to keep his members happy, Davis said.

What does that mean?

Well, the golf course is officially closed after dark, but if someone wants to go out and do whatever, Mr. Diamond is willing to look the other way so long as they don’t disturb the other members and they pay for any damage they might cause.

I see.  When you say do whatever, what do you mean?

That’s not my business.  So long as they’re not bothering the other members and pay for any damage, it’s none of my concern. The club is here for the members’ enjoyment.

Arnie understood the gist of Davis’s comment, but now was not the time to let his imagination wonder into the details of what rich drunk people might be doing on the golf course in the dark.  I see, he said, leaving those details for later.  Let’s start with something simpler, then, Arnie continued.  When was Mr. Ferrero here last, officially. 

Davis tapped some buttons on his office computer.  Mr. Davis played golf with his regular foursome yesterday morning starting at 10:18.  He had a tuna sandwich on rye in the clubhouse in between nines, then he had a two beers in the bar after golfing.  He had dinner for two starting at 7:03 and he signed his dinner check at 8:47.  And that’s all I have.

Was dinner with Mrs. Ferrero?  Arnie asked.

No.  There presently isn’t a Mrs. Ferrero.

I see.  Who was his server last night?

Michelle.

Is Michelle in today?

No.  All except the ground crew has the day off.  She’ll be in again . . .  Davis tapped some keys on his computer,  Wednesday at 4.

Who is Mr. Ferrero’s regular foursome?

Nicholas Cosmopolis, the chairman of Xygen Industries, Francis Franklin of the Franklin Fund Franklins, and Anthony Milano, he was Commissioner of Banking and Insurance a few years back and now he’s a name partner at Sullivan, Milano and Rosenblum.  That’s a law firm in Morristown.  Arnie knew that Davis was explaining their business affiliations to emphasize how important the men were to underscore the prestige of the club.  Xygen Industries was a conglomerate based in Florham Park that sold everything from peanut butter to luxury makeup, as well as owning a number of chain hotel and restaurant franchises.  The Franklin Funds were a stock brokerage group that was founded in the 1800s in Philadelphia but had recently moved its headquarters to the Route 1 corridor in Princeton.  There hadn’t been a Franklin involved in the day-to-day business of the Franklin Funds for three generations, but the family had done, and still did, very well through their stock interests.

I know Mr. Milano, Arnie said.  Davis raised a surprised eyebrow.  Arnie knew Anthony Milano because his wife was a partner at the same law firm.  Could I get the contact information for the other two gentlemen?

What for, detective?  Davis asked.  We’re very protective of our members’ privacy.

I’d like to talk to them to see if anything unusual went on yesterday.

Well . . .

I can find the information on my own, but it would save time if you’d give it to me.  I’m sure you have a member directory in your computer.

Under the circumstances, I guess that wouldn’t be a problem.  Davis typed on his computer again.  As he was giving Arnie the information, a large helicopter passed over the clubhouse and landed on the front lawn.  That would be Mr. Diamond,  Davis said.  He said he was coming.  Davis reflexively began quickly straightening his desk, then making sure his jacket and tie were arranged properly.

Within two minutes, Diamond burst into Davis’s office.  To Arnie, he looked exactly like he did in the press and on television, only shorter.  In person, though, Diamond looked a little too perfect to be true.  Arnie thought he probably had had a nip or a tuck on his face, and the amount of grey in his hair appeared to have been calculated to be appropriate for whatever age Diamond wanted to appear to be.  Davis walked from behind his desk to greet Diamond.

Skip, what the fuck is going on?  Diamond thundered, walking past Davis to behind Davis’s desk.  It’s all over the news that one of our members was killed, and there were a shitload of TV vans outside the front gate when I flew in.  We can’t have that.  Couldn’t you keep a lid on things until Clarice was able to take care of this?  Clarice was Diamond’s publicist.  And who the fuck is this? Diamond said, pointing to Arnie.

This is Det. Arnold of the Morris County Prosecutor’s Office.  He’s heading up the investigation, Davis explained.

You’ve been on the case for five minutes and you’re already having press conferences?  Diamond asked.

It wasn’t me, sir, Arnie said defensively.  I’ve been with Mr. Davis the whole time.

Hmmpf, Diamond said.  Probably the local yokel cops, then.  Another big contribution to the PBA will probably keep them in line.

Sir?  Arnie asked.

Never mind, Diamond continued.  Have you found out yet who killed one of my members? 

No, sir, Arnie said.  As you said yourself, I’m just getting started.  This is going to take some leg work.

Skip, Diamond said, I want the word to go out that everyone is to give their cooperation to Detective . . .

Arnold, Arnie said.

Whatever, Diamond continued dismissively.  He needs to get to the bottom of this ASAP.

Thank you, sir, Arnie said.

I’ll see to it, Mr. Diamond, Davis said.

And Skip, Diamond said.  Get a tow truck over here.  There was some kind of mini pimpmobile in the parking lot.  I don’t know and I don’t care who it belongs to, but it doesn’t belong here.

That would be mine, sir, Arnie said.  Arnie was driving a low-slung customized Toyota Avalon with smoked windows because his own RAV 4 had been shot up two weeks before by a murder suspect.  The Avalon had been acquired by the Prosecutor’s Office as forfeited property from a drug dealer and was used occasionally for undercover work. 

Diamond looked at Arnold as if Diamond had just stepped in dog droppings.  Detective, Diamond said, see if you can get some more appropriate transportation before you come back again.

It’s a loaner, sir, Arnie said.  I should be getting my car back later this week.

Loaner?  Diamond asked skeptically.  "Who would lend out a vehicle like that?"

It’s a long story, sir.

I’m sure.  Whatever.  Just find out who killed, who was it, Skip?

Mr. Ferrero, Davis said.

As soon, and as discretely as possible, Diamond continued.  "I don’t want my members any more upset about this thing than is necessary.

Chapter 2

Arnie’s first stop after leaving Diamond National was Sullivan, Milano and Rosenblum back in Morristown to speak to Anthony Milano.  This seemed to be the logical starting place, since Arnie already knew Milano, and the Sullivan, Milano and Rosenblum office was only a few blocks from the Morris County Prosecutor’s office.  Arnie called in advance to make sure that Milano was in the office.  He wasn’t in when Arnie called on his drive back to the office, but Milano’s secretary expected Milano to be in at around 10:30, which worked out to about the time Arnie would be back in Morristown.  Arnie parked at his office parking lot and walked over the hill to Headquarters Plaza, the office complex where Sullivan, Milano and Rosenblum was located.

Hi, Sarah, Arnie said.

Good morning, Det. Arnold, the receptionist said in a perky upper class English accent.  This was the first time Arnie could remember that she had gotten his name correct.  In the past, she had usually called Arnie the name of some fictional detective, from Mr. Holmes, to Mr. Spade to Lt. Columbo.  Arnie believed that the receptionist, Sarah Anderson, was probably pushing 70, since she had come to the U.S. (and taken a few too many drugs) in the 1960s.  She had been hired as the firm’s receptionist for her accent and been a fixture for over 35 years.  Should I ring Ms. Devereaux for you?  she asked, picking up the phone.

Actually, I’m here to see Mr. Milano, Arnie said.

Let me see if he’s in, Anderson said.  She quietly called on the phone, then said, Mr. Milano will be with you momentarily.  He’s on a call.

Arnie took a seat in the reception area.  About 10 minutes later, Milano’s secretary came into the reception area and led Arnie through a maze of internal hallways to Milano’s office, a large corner office overlooking the hills around Morristown.  Milano, was silver haired, trim, around age 60.   The firm had a business casual dress policy, but Milano’s interpretation of business casual that day was a starched white dress shirt, pressed black pants and black Italian loafers.

Arnie, Milano said, greeting Arnie and shaking his hand.  Your message said that you had some questions about George.

Yes, sir, Arnie said.  Milano motioned for Arnie to sit on the sofa in Milano’s office.  Milano took an armchair by the sofa.  Arnie was not quite sure how familiar to be. He had had first met Milano while investigating a murder at Sullivan, Milano and Rosenblum, when he had also met Melinda.  Since then, he had seen Milano at a few firm functions, where they had had friendly conversations.

Enough with the ‘sir’ stuff, Milano said.  You’re like family now.  Important things before business.  I haven’t seen you for a while.  Congratulations on getting married.  You’re a very lucky guy.  Melinda and Arnie had gotten married a little a few months before.

I know, sir, Arnie said, the sir coming out automatically for a witness interview.  She’s the best.

We think so, too.  So, what’s going on with George?  I heard he was crucified or something.

Not exactly, sir.  He was impaled with a sand-trap rake.

That’s about par for the course, so to speak.

How do you mean?

The gossip around the club isn’t always the most accurate.

So you already heard about this?

Yeah, sure.  I got a call from Nick Cosmopolis early this morning.

What time was that?  Just curious.

Around 7:30, I guess.

Arnie made a note for himself of the time, since he had gotten the call about the murder at 7:00 and the story about the murder had already