Free Six Strokes Under by Roberta Isleib Page A

face.
    "You startled me," I said. "I didn't expect to see anyone I knew in here. Have a seat. You're down here to watch Kaitlin?"
    "I'm her caddie," said Gary. "I thought you knew that."
    "Lucky her," I said. "You don't see my brother out here with me." I felt disloyal even mentioning Charlie. He supported me the best he could, considering his own pressure-cooker career as junior partner in a big D.C. law firm. "How'd you get the time off?"
    "At the moment, I've got all the time in the world," he said. "I made the mistake of signing on with a dot-com last year. They did a great selling job—I was going to make a million before I hit thirty-five. Instead, they hit the skids and I'm on the street."
    "Sore subject, I guess. But good timing for Kaitlin."
    We chatted about our respective trips down and places we'd found to stay. The Ruperts had rented a condo on the Bobcat's eighteenth fairway—"Kaitlin wanted to be close in," Gary explained. He looked hard at me. "How are you holding up?"
    I sighed. "Rough day."
    "Practice didn't go well?"
    "There's that, though I hardly got any in, really. The worst is this business about Bencher's murder." I told him about my meeting with Sheriff Pate.
    "So he thinks the murderer might believe you know something about how Bencher was killed?" I nodded. "Like what?"
    "Like maybe Bencher said something identifying his attacker before he died and I heard him. That's what my shrink friend Joe Lancaster thinks, too."
    "Did he say something?"
    I shrugged. "I don't think so. It was just a bunch of horrible gasps and gurgles as far as I could tell. And I've explained all that to the police several times."
    "Maybe Pate was just blowing smoke up your ass, enjoyed seeing you squirm." He half-patted, half-rubbed my knee.
    "Quite possible," I said. "The more rattled I felt, the more cheerful he seemed."
    "Was there anything else unusual about Bencher's office? Besides a dying headshrinker, I mean."
    I chuckled and thought back to the scene. "It was a mess—papers strewn everywhere. I caught hell when I started to clean things up. I know it was dumb. It was strictly instinct."
    "Or your mother's excellent training," said Gary. "So did you see anything there?"
    I shrugged again. "I don't think so." I laughed. "Maybe if they put me through hypnosis, all this important subconscious stuff would come out. On the other hand, could be you'd just hear gibberish about how Mom didn't play classical music when she was pregnant with me or some other stupid psychobabble."
    "Couple of beers here," Gary called to the bartender. "The police seem eager to relate this problem to Kaitlin's lawsuit. But from everything I've heard, Bencher was like a heat-seeking missile when it came to controversy."
    "That's what my friend Joe says," I told Gary. "He
    promised he'd ask around the shrink circles and see what dirt he could turn up."
    "Sounds awfully distracting, this bullshit. Let me know if I can help." He patted my knee again and smiled. " Kaitlin's not really so bad, you know," he added. "She's just mega-insecure. In her mind, everyone's a threat. Especially a woman as talented and attractive as you."
    His hand brushed a little farther up my thigh, maybe accidental, maybe not. In any case, the combination of alcohol, Gary's concern and compliments, and the feel of his touch on my leg was surprisingly pleasant. I tried to think why I'd been so definite about refusing a date with him ten years ago. Just a dumb, shallow teenager, I decided. Drawing conclusions based on how clear someone's complexion was or how many touchdowns they scored. Attributes which didn't mean too much at this stage of life. Then I decided that if he touched my leg again, even farther up the thigh, I would not remove his hand.
    Kaitlin's arrival at the bar truncated any further development. She had her Deikon rep in tow, radiating an odd combination of testosterone and bonhomie.
    "I hope I'm not interrupting something," she said. The unpleasant curl of