Blood Orchid

Stuart Woods

Blood Orchid

The third book in the Holly Barker series

1

Sara Te

As she parked her new Toyota Avalon in the reserved space, next to that of her boss, she was surprised and not a little a

There was something odd about the Mercedes, she realized, through the fog of her recent sleep. Until she had her morning coffee, a double espresso, she would not think quickly. She sat in the Toyota with the motor still ru

The lights, she decided. The interior lights of the Mercedes were on, and unless she turned them off, Ma

She gathered her things once again, closed the car door, and pressed the button on the remote control to lock all the doors and the trunk. Some cars had been broken into in this garage, in spite of the security cameras. She wished Ma

Ma

Heart attack! Sara thought immediately. She had taken a CPR course at her church, and she knew exactly what to do. She put her things on the garage floor, reached out to Ma

Steven Steinberg stood on the eighteenth tee of the Doral Country Club’s famous course, the Blue Monster, and gazed down the fairway, utterly relaxed and confident. He had played this schmuck from New York like a violin, and now he was going to take his money. Even though Steinberg had an official handicap of six, and even though he should have carried a card that said three, he had allowed his guest to play him neck and neck for seventeen holes. They were now tied at eleven over par, and it was time to crank the handle on the cash register.

Steinberg took his stance, his right foot back a couple of extra inches, and without a practice swing, hit the ball. It started to the right, then turned over and dropped into the middle of the fairway, two hundred and seventy yards down the course.

Fleischman stared after the ball with an expression of disbelief on his face.

“Something wrong?” Steinberg asked.

“Nothing at all,” Fleischman replied, teeing up. He swung mightily at the ball and sliced it into a fairway bunker, two hundred and twenty yards down the fairway. He picked up his tee. “So how come, all of a sudden, after seventeen holes, you’re outdriving me?”

Steinberg shrugged. “Every now and then I really co

“Sometimes,” Fleischman said. “But not usually on the eighteenth, and not for that kind of length.”

They got into Steinberg’s customized golf cart. “You know what I’d do if I were you?” he said to his guest.

“No, Steven, what would you do?”

“I’d take a seven wood and go for it.”

“Out of a bunker?”

“Why not? It’s a shallow bunker; there’s enough loft on a seven wood to carry the edge, and you’d find yourself a nice little wedge from the flag. You got a seven wood? You want to borrow mine?” At this stage, he could afford to appear to be generous.

“I’ve got a seven wood,” Fleischman said as the cart drew to a halt next to the bunker. He looked down the fairway toward the flag, checked the depth of the bunker, and pulled his seven wood from his bag.

“Come on,” Steinberg said, “you can do it.”

Fleischman lined up his shot. “Keep it smooth,” he muttered to himself. “Nice easy shot.” He swung the club and co

“Great shot!” Steinberg said.

“Thanks for the tip,” Fleischman replied, getting into the cart.

They stopped next to Steinberg’s ball. He didn’t even glance down the fairway, just went to his bag and came back with a fairway wood.

“What are you doing with that club?” Fleischman asked. “It’s only a hundred and sixty yards to the flag; you’ll knock it into the next county.”

“This is an eleven wood,” Steinberg replied, lining up on the ball. He relaxed, took a breath and let it out, and took a slow-looking, liquid swing at the ball. It rose high into the air, sailed down the fairway, past the guarding bunkers, and dropped onto the green with only a single bounce, stopping four feet from the pin.

“I’m getting one of those,” Fleischman muttered.

“You should,” Steinberg replied, still holding his finish.

Then Steinberg’s head exploded.

For a tiny second before he screamed, Fleischman wondered if cheating at golf could make your head explode.

2

Holly Barker walked into the Ocean Grill in Vero Beach and looked around for her father. Nowhere in sight. She looked at her watch; okay, she was ten minutes early, and Ham was always exactly on time.

“Hi, Holly,” the woman at the headwaiter’s station said. “How many tonight?”

“Just two,” Holly replied. “Ham ought to be here in a few minutes. Tell him I’m in the bar.”

“Right. I ought to have a table in twenty minutes or so.”

The Ocean Grill didn’t take reservations, so Holly always came early. One side of the bar was empty, so she plopped down on a stool there.

“What’ll it be?” the bartender asked.

“A three-to-one vodka gimlet, straight up, shaken, very cold.”

“Make that two,” a man’s voice said from behind her, and someone took a seat two stools down. “My favorite,” he said to Holly.

Jackson had been dead for nearly a year, but Holly still wasn’t ready to be hit on. She half-turned toward the stranger and nodded. She wasn’t getting into a conversation. Then she relaxed. He was sixtyish and well preserved, at that. He was beautifully, if casually dressed in a blue blazer, gray trousers, black alligator loafers, and what looked like a silk shirt, pale yellow and open at the collar. A pocket square that matched the shirt peeped from his breast pocket.