So whats your bet about? Callaway asked, making several slow-motion swings toward the ball.

The heavy man seated to the left shifted his gaze to Roth. His face had a brutal, pitbull look to it: small eyes, upturned nostrils, broad jaw with a pronounced underbite. His eyes studied the agents with suspicion.

A bottle of rum, Roth announced, smiling. Why, would you like to join in on the wager?

Harley opened her mouth to intervene. They had come to question Roth about the deaths of three young women, not to join him for a friendly game of golf. But there was an alertness to Callaways movements, a falseness, that suggested he was more on edge than he appeared. She decided to trust him.

Depends what I have to lose, Callaway replied, smiling with equal friendliness.

Roth waved his hand, dismissing this. Nothing to lose.

Callaway shrugged, wound up a few more times, and then swung. The club hit the ball with a satisfying whack, and Harley shaded her eyes as the white ball curved over the wall, shrinking toward the desert until it finally disappeared a good distance short of the bus.

No shame there, Roth said, chuckling. Ferrero and I have been at it all morning, and still no luck.

Its the wind, Ferrero murmured, like a man speaking about an old grievance. It shifts.

Callaway handed the club back to Roth, who was retrieving another ball.

Plenty of privacy out here, Callaway observed, stretching his arms. Listen, Mr. Roth

Please, just Lawrence.

Callaway nodded agreeably. Lawrence, then. We dont want to take up much of your time. I didnt want to bother you at all, but theres this small matter were trying to clear up.

Oh? Roths feet did a little dance on the green as he lined up his next swing.

Harley, tiring of this good old boys routine, spoke up. Could we have a word with you in private, Mr. Roth?

Roth struck the ball, which disappeared into a clump of trees close to the bus. It was a graceful swing, a testament to many hours of practice.

Roth turned, resting the club over one shoulder and slipping his other hand into the pocket of his trousers. Anything you can say to me, he answered, you can say to Ferrero. And theres no need to worry about the guardsI cut their tongues out.

His face remained serious for several moments before cracking into a smile. Im joking. What is this, a funeral? Did a close relative of mine die?

No, but three young women did, Harley answered. Were here investigating their murders. Do the names Theresa Flowers, Lisa Powell, or Valeria Ramos ring any bells?

Roth glanced at Callaway, his face blank. Im afraid Ive never heard of them.

Harley studied him, trying to get a read on whether he was telling the truth. It was impossible to say. If he was lying, he was a damn fine liar.