Free Moon Music by Faye Kellerman Page B

fingers echoing in the stillness of the night. Slowly, he forced himself to move. To go away.
    He had a giant headache.
    Probably too much caffeine.
    Next time, he'd cool it with the coffee.

NINE

    T AKING A couple of practice swings, the iron whizzing through the air. "How's your game coming, son?" Poe answered, "I don't play golf, Mr. Lewiston." "Pity." Several more slices into the air. Then the moment of truth. Lewiston bunched up his body in concentration, his eyes focused on the tee. He took aim and swung. A clean shot, the ball rising, falling, rolling across the ground. It fell into a sunken cup around fifty yards away.
    That's how big the office was.
    Poe estimated that it took up over half the top floor of the Laredo. Floor number twenty-six. Twenty-five actually, because the elevator had gone from floor twelve to floor fourteen. Lewiston's domain kept going and going, with desks and chairs and couches and tables, all of the furniture resting on a carpet of natural sod. Verdant , clipped sod. The temperature inside his working quarters was a muggy seventy-four degrees.
    Lewiston leaned against his iron, said, "You say you don't play golf?"
    "Correct." Poe was seated in a leather club chair whose legs were buried in the grass. The apparatus had settled slightly to the left, throwing his perspective off-kilter.
    "Have you ever tried the game?"
    "A few times."
    Lewiston straightened. Poe felt the heat of the casino owner's eyes, peering at him as if sighting prey. Steely blue things that were reptilian-cold. A chiseled face with a strop-sharpened-razor shave, his complexion so smooth as to appear wet. Short haircut, the color too iridescent to be called gray. It was more like silver. At sixty, Lewiston stood erect and tall—about Jensen's height. For the golfing demonstration, he had donned a pair of black silk-and-wool slacks and a white silk shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His feet were housed in black croc boots. He wore a string tie held together by a jeweled pendant—aquamarine maybe. He had thrown the tie over his shoulder lest it interfere with his shot.
    "Son, you've never tried the game until you've tried it with me. Why don't you join me on one of my courses this Saturday? Golfing always puts me in a social mood."
    "My handicap would be too big, sir."
    Besides, fraternizing with the big boys is a no-no, Parker. Sort of ruins the objectivity.
    "You know how to aim a gun?" Lewiston asked.
    "Of course."
    "Shoot a target?"
    "Yes."
    "Then golf should be a snap."
    "I think holing a fifty-yard chip takes a little more finesse than blasting a cardboard cutout."
    "Well, it shouldn't take more finesse," Lewiston insisted. "Because shooting has a lot more ramifications than sinking a putt. You should work some finesse into your shooting, son."
    Poe was not about to be undermined. "Maybe it has something to do with split-second decisions. Difficult to have finesse when you're looking down the barrel of a shotgun." He whispered, "Hand's shaking too hard."
    Lewiston smiled with brown-stained teeth. "You should work on that, too. Never let them see you sweat."
    "I'll keep that in mind next time I'm running down an armed bank robber. Better still, I'll call you. You can bring down your clubs and really show him who's boss."
    "In a tight situation, a Magnum might be the preferred weapon. You can always borrow mine."
    "I wouldn't mind, but the department may have other thoughts." Poe balled his hands into fists to keep himself from fidgeting. "Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Lewiston. I really do appreciate it. Especially because you are a hard man to reach."
    Two hours of plodding through the channels had accomplished zilch. But twenty minutes at the blackjack tables had caught their attention. Place had a new pit boss. Shame on Parkerboy for not keeping his guys up to date.
    Lewiston said, "My staff knows how I value my privacy." The eyes squinted into small knots. "You seem to be a persistent fellow. One