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MICHAEL

I ’ve arrived at Who’s Your Caddy Golf Club before sunup. The club is one of two from the olden days of Hollywood. From what I’ve been told, this place and Seas the Day Country Club and Med Spa have been struggling to keep up appearances since larger chain clubs backed by corporations have been cropping up the last few years. This incident will do little to keep them afloat. Another Hollywood mainstay on the brink, it seems. It’s sad, really.

As I step through the grand, arched entrance, the opulence of old-world glamour and luxury now feels eerie under the shadow of crime scene tape. The soft glow of crystal chandeliers hanging from an intricately coffered ceiling catches my eye, their light reflecting off polished marble floors that now echo with the footsteps of investigators and the murmurs of staff.

In the reception area, I notice the plush, emerald velvet chairs and the dark mahogany woodwork. Gilded mirrors adorn the walls, their ornate frames catching the light and adding a touch of opulence to the scene. Black-and-white photographs of Hollywood stars hang along the corridor, now serving as silent witnesses to the current investigation.

The air is still filled with a delicate blend of eucalyptus and lavender, a stark contrast to the tension that fills the room. The main lounge area, usually a sanctuary of comfort and style, now hosts a team of detectives, their voices low as they confer over the grand fireplace. Fresh flowers and vintage ornaments on the mantle seem out of place amidst the chaos.

Every corner of Who's Your Caddy Country Club, once whispering tales of secret rendezvous, star-studded parties, and the timeless pursuit of leisure and luxury, now tells a different story. It’s a place where the echoes of the past blend seamlessly with the grim reality of the present, offering me a unique challenge in uncovering the truth behind the crimes committed here under the cover of darkness.

“Who are you?” a seductive male voice sounds behind me.

I turn as a perky young red-haired twenty-something saunters over to me with his hand extended. Taking his hand I shake the limp, dead, fish. Gross. Nothing worse than a limp handshake.

“Hello,” I say. “My name’s Detective Michael Borne.”

“Say no more,” he says. “Put me in cuffs.” He wiggles his hands and fingers between us.

Chuckling, I smile. “I don’t think that will be necessary… unless you’re a murderer, of course.”

The gasp and clutching of pearls sounded as honest as any answer I’ve ever received during my time on the homicide division.

“My goodness,” he says. “I was not expecting you to say such a thing.”

“Sorry,” I say, pulling out my pencil and small notepad. “What was your name?”

The handsome man before me seems to turn a shade of red, then white, and then green? Is he terrified of me now?

“Mr. Kaleb Robert Carmelo Hector Hudson, at your service.” His eyes twinkle as he clearly shifts from being scared to horny.

“Wow,” I say. “That’s quite a mouthful.”

“So I’ve been told.” He pouts his lips and tucks a non-existent strand of hair behind his ear. “What can I do to… sorry, for you?”

“I was hoping you could tell me something about the incident that happened here last night.”

His demeanor grows serious. “I don’t know anything. In fact, I didn’t even know the old guy that was found.”

“But you knew Gordy?”

He nods. “Super nice guy. I knew he was gay; we both would often chat about who we’d love to hook up with here at the club. Other than that, we didn’t hang out after work or anything like that.”

I took notes while he spoke and then handed him my card. “If you happen to remember anything else or hear anything that might be important… even if it just seems like idle gossip, let me know.”

He takes the card and shoves it into his front pocket. “Sure thing.”

We part ways and I do my best to make my way out to the grounds behind the large club space. There’s no one between me and the crime scene so I hurry to the site of the double murder. While the CSI team processes the scene, I walk around the bodies, snapping my own pictures and taking notes. Rumor has it that the two victims met up last night for a sexual rendezvous. The age gap between the two men unnerves some of the staff I interview, but they’re both consenting adults, so what does it matter? I wonder if the age gap would matter to the staff if it were a hetero couple.

I tap the end of my pencil against my chin. There has to be more to this crime scene and scenario. An older patron in his fifties and a young staff member sneak back here in the middle of the night to have sex. So what? Why would they be murdered for it? According to the police who arrived first on the scene, there’s no sign of a robbery. Both victims have their wallets, cash, credit cards, and valuables undisturbed on their bodies. It’ll take a while to get the toxicology report, but I would bet dollars to donuts they’ll both come back clean—not a track mark on either man. Not even a pack of cigarettes was located amongst their personal items.

Hate crime? Jilted lover? There’s still a lot to uncover, but from what I’ve already gathered, both victims were single, which leaves a hate crime. Something about that conclusion doesn’t sit well with me either. This is California and two men having a quickie is anything but shocking in this day and age.

“Detective Borne?” A frantic man, appearing to be in his sixties, rushes over to me, hand extended in greeting. The man is short and stout, breathing hard and sweating from his march across the grounds. “What a terrible tragedy.”

I accept his handshake and say, “As you know, I’m Detective Michael Borne. And you are?”

“Oh, sorry,” the man says. “I’m the owner of the club. Stanley Crump’s the name. I got a call an hour and a half ago, and I jumped in my car and rushed over here as soon as I could.”

“What can you tell me about the victims?”

Stanley shakes his head and shrugs. “Not much, I’m afraid. Branson James is a former professional football player, widower, and very rich.”

“How about Gordy Herrera?”

Stanley fidgets in place like a scolded child waiting for his punishment. I cock my head to the side and watch him in silence for a moment. He digs his heel into the grass and kicks away the clods but doesn’t answer the question.

“Sir?” I ask. “Did you hear my question?”

He nods and sighs, his shoulders slumping even further than his already terrible posture. “Gordy was a good kid.” His voice catches in his throat.

“Did you know him personally?”

“Of course, he worked for me.” Stanley sounds harsh and dismissive.

“I understand, sir. I believe most employers have a basic idea of who works for them, but there are very few who have an actual personal connection to them… a connection that would bring up such an emotional response, such as yourself.”

He doesn’t reply at first but looks off into the distance, the hardness in his expression softening with each passing second. “Gordy was special to me.”

I let the statement sit for a moment and then ask, “In what way?”

Stanley shakes his head. “Not like the way you’re thinking.”

“I’m not thinking anything, sir. I’m simply trying to understand who the victim was.”

Another long pause, but then Stanley seems resolved to open the door. “He was my son. No one around here knew it… lord knows the rumor mill this place has become.” Stanley clamps his hand down over his mouth and quivering chin, his eyes welling up with tears. He sniffs and wipes his nose on the back of his hand and shrugs. “Like I said, he’s a good kid.”

Needing to separate myself from the emotions running high, I press on for answers. “His relation to you was a secret? I don’t think I understand.”

“He found me on one of those family-ancestry websites. Just shy of a year ago, he contacted me. He wanted us to get to know each other… said he had proof we were family. Well… you can imagine how I reacted.”

I have an idea and find it best for the interviewee to tell me directly . “Keep going, sir. The more you tell me now, the more it could help lead to whoever did this to your son.”

“Turns out the affair I had two decades ago ended up producing a child… clearly it wasn’t something I was proud of, and I didn’t even know he existed until he showed up on my doorstep with the DNA results.”

“How did your wife react to the news?”

“I didn’t tell her. I’d already made peace with the affair, determined never to do it again, and pay for it when I meet my maker, whenever that should happen to be. I didn’t see a reason to ruin my marriage and hurt my wife since I was determined never to do it again.”

“Were you worried about the secret getting out since Gordy worked here? Why did you employ him to begin with?”

“He was already working here… I couldn’t just fire him. He was a good employee. I even offered to make him a manager, but he was proud. Too proud to take handouts, he’d said. He repeatedly told me he didn’t want anything from me, but to have a father figure in his life.” Tears well up in Stanley’s eyes again and he shakes his head. “We’d grown close over the past year… I’d even contemplated telling my wife about him because I couldn’t imagine him not being part of our lives.”

“Do you know of anyone who would want to hurt your son? Someone that might have become jealous of your relationship with him? You mentioned before this place was a rumor-mill, even something that seems implausible could help.”

Stanley doesn’t respond right away, but stares off into the distance, his eyes darting back and forth. I’ve seen this many times before, the victim’s loved one desperate to help, but unable to focus on anything other than their pain and loss.

“I have no idea who could have done this. I’m so sorry, Detective. If there was anything at all I could do to help, I promise you I would.”

“I believe you, sir,” I say and put my hand on the older man’s shoulder. “Here’s my card. If you remember anything… or hear anything that might help, please don’t hesitate to call me.”

Stanley takes the card and studies it for a moment, then puts it into his front pocket. “Thank you, Detective.”

I take a few notes as I walk away from the owner and stop midway to the main entrance. I put the pad back into my pocket and head straight for my car. I need coffee, and I need it now.

Coffee Cravings, the coffee shop I love to go to, isn’t far from the golf club and they have the best iced mocha cold brew. With pedal to the metal, I make record time as I slow into the parking space. As I approach the entrance, a couple catches my eye. The female is cute, physically fit, and appears even at this distance to be the male’s friend rather than lover. Their dynamic is true and platonic. I refocus my attention on the male, decently dressed, thin, with boyish good looks and if I were to guess—gay. Butterflies fill my belly. Something about this guy tugs at me, and for the first time in a while, I want to actually get to know someone… him. It feels weird, since I haven’t even spoken to the guy.

I hurry to catch the door as it starts closing behind them. They stand in line in front of me and I rack my brain to come up with a reason to speak to him. I’m about to give up when he drops his wallet.

Reaching down, I pick it up before he even turns around. When I tap him on the shoulder, he turns, and our eyes meet. His light brown eyes sparkle in the light. He’s beautiful and not in the shallow sort of way as my previous date had been.

“Oh, thanks,” he says and snatches the wallet from my hand. His female friend turns and checks me out; if her eyes were fingers, I’d have arrested her for unwanted groping.

“Got to be careful these days,” I say. “People love to steal each other’s identities.” Shit, I sound like an overbearing father. Or maybe even a creepy serial killer.

Awkward glances from him tell me I need to change my approach or simply give up.

“My name’s Michael,” I say, extending my hand.

“It’s so nice to meet you, Michael. I’m Tina and this is my friend Patrick.”

Tina nudges him in the side and he shoots her a dirty look, his cheeks blushing red. He’s clearly not interested.

“Great to meet you,” I say. Waiting for some kind of response from the guy, my stomach tightens. Gosh this guy is so cute, but he might not like me since I feel I look a bit older than him. Not to mention, I’m not absolutely ripped like a gym-bro. Inwardly, I sigh and I feel my shoulders slump, ever so slightly. It sure would have been nice to make a connection after such a shitty date the other night.

Cutting my losses, I look away, pretending to be interested in a stupid mug for sale on the shelf next to me in line.

They turn back around, and it’s clear from their body language, Tina either wants me for herself or for her best friend, but Patrick is not interested in the slightest. He probably wants a gym rat or something, and while I’m plenty strong, I’d say I have more of a muscular dad body—quite fit, but not a lot of definition in my abs. Tacos, pizza, and the occasional beer—never going to be completely ripped enjoying my life like that.

Anyway, I mind my own business in line and order my coffee. By the time I get a straw and napkins, I turn back around, and Tina and Patrick have left the shop. Oh well, wasn’t meant to be. I sit down at a little table in the corner of the place and take out my personal cell phone, open the dating app and begin swiping left and right. Dammit, the pickings are slim on here this morning. My mind tells me to uninstall the app, but my heart tells me there’s still a chance to find love. To find my forever.