#Extract The Last Resort (A Jen Lu Mystery # 2) By Michael Kaufman

Description of the book: It's March 2034, six months after D.C. police detective Jen Lu and Chandler, her sentient bio-computer and wannabe tough guy implanted in her brain, cracked the mystery of Eden. The climate crisis is hitting harder than ever: a mega-hurricane has devastated the eco-system and waves of refugees pour into Washington, D.C.

Environmental lawyer and media darling Patty Garcia dies in a bizarre accident on a golf course. Of the seven billion people on the planet, only Jen thinks she was murdered. After all, Garcia just won a court case for massive climate change reparations to be paid out by oil, gas, and coal companies. Jen is warned off, but she and Chandler start digging. Signs point to Garcia's abusive ex, a former oil giant, but soon Jen turns up more suspects who have an even greater motive for committing murder

Soon Jen is in the crosshairs of those who will ensure the truth never comes to light, no matter the cost. She has to move quickly before she becomes next on the killer's list.

THE LAST RESORT by MICHAEL KAUFMAN
March 3, 2034

"I never killed anyone before."
Yeah, that's what they all say when they're staring at prison through their big brown eyes. But I admit, the hedge fund CEO had us both convinced, Jen and me. A freak death by an errant ball at a snooty golf course.
Despite being a Timeless, the man looked unwell. His skin was now the color of liverwurst that had been left out too long in the sun. He charged from the posh meeting room toward the restroom. Second time since we had brought him up to the clubhouse.
My boss: Jen B. Lu. Age thirty-eight. Washington, DC, police detective.
Me: Two years and nine months. Biocomputer implanted into her neocortex.
"What do you think, boss?"
Jen said, "I think he should take golf lessons before he kills anyone else."
"She's not dead yet."
"No," Jen agreed. "Not yet."
When the hedge fund president finally staggered back, dabbing the corners of his narrow mouth with a blindingly white handkerchief, we ran through it all again.
Trebook said, "As I told you twice, when you're on the tee box—"
"On the fifth hole."
"Of course on the fifth damn hole." He glared briefly, his normal rich-guy moxie starting to bubble up. "From up there, you can't see the place we found her."
"Isn't that risky? Hitting your ball when someone could be there?"
"She should have been well ahead of the two of us by then."
She. Patty Garcia.
Texan. Fifty-two. Lawyer. Celebrity. Media darling. Daughter of farmworkers with a rags-to-riches story. Star athlete back in college. Rumored presidential candidate. Time magazine Person of the Year for leading the landmark civil suit against the oil, gas, and coal giants. That Patty Garcia.
When the call had come in, we happened to be a block away, so we were first on the scene. The polished gates of the golf club had breezed open to our police scooter. We charged up a drive that wound through thick woods where springtime leaves were popping out in front of our eyes. As we reached the steps to the clubhouse, a young woman dashed out and greeted us like a society dinner party hostess who was trying to control her panic that the beef Wellington would get soggy if we didn't hurry. She whisked us into a Tesla golf cart with heated seats, and as she floored that puppy. We charged across two holes, bombed through a patch of woods, blazed past a green, and arrived on the fifth hole. Good times.
Patty Garcia was lying there on the fairway, not moving, but then again, it kind of freaks me out when corpses start moving on you. Jen doesn't like it when I talk that way, but I'm not a kid anymore, and she can't tell me what to do.
We climbed out of the golf cart. The grass was as soft as a well-padded carpet.
Although our panicking hostess had said Garcia was dead, another woman—she was, we soon found out, Trebook's playing partner, Dr. Jane Kershaw—saw us and said, "I've found a pulse. It's extremely weak."
Garcia had a bump on her temple the size of a quail egg ready to hatch twins.
I checked comms and reported.
Jen said, "We expect an ambulance in four minutes."
Here's the picture. We were in the northern half of Rock Creek Park, the section that hadn't been incinerated in the fire last year. In the old days before I was booted up, this course had been a run-down municipal track that could have doubled as a dirt-bike course. It was to golf what netless, bent rims mounted on warped plywood above an undulating slab of asphalt were to basketball: nice that a million people had access to it, but damn, couldn't we do a bit better for our citizens? But after Disney bought the National Park Service, it flipped the course to a small consortium of super-rich Timeless who decided they indeed had a social responsibility to do better. They landed a ninety-million federal Better Future for All grant and rebuilt it as an urban golf resort—golf course, pool, gym, spa, and private suites for the pleasure of 246 deserving members.
And that's smack-dab where we'd found Patty Garcia. The fifth hole of Viridian Green Golf Resort.
Other than the not-quite-yet-dead person lying in front of us, it was a pretty decent day. Here was the cast of characters: Ms. Garcia on the ground looking dead. Mr. Trebook looking gray. Dr. Kershaw, kneeling at the lawyer's side, looking concerned. Two service units, each with a hand resting on top of a golf bag, standing off to the side. Four golf course employees shuffling from foot to foot—one whispering into his phone, the others with hands folded in front of themselves as if dress rehearsing for the funeral.
Just as I detected four sirens—an ambulance, a police motorcycle, and two cruisers—I also caught the first whumping of the air ambulance. Bad news about big people travels fast.
Garcia was wearing soda-pop-orange shorts—tightly cut and fashionably short—with a persimmon-orange shirt and a wide purple belt. Lying at her side was a neon-green golf bag. If I had my own set of eyes, they'd be pumping tears like a busted spigot trying to cope with this clash of colors. But somehow it worked on her. This was one very cool woman.
A gleaming white golf ball lay on the tightly mowed grass like a pearl in a display case on green velvet. We squatted down, looked, but did not touch.
"It's mine," the man said. His skin now seemed to be experimenting with interesting shades of green, which at least added a splash of color alongside his beige golf attire.
"Who are you?" Jen asked.
"Peter Trebook. Jane—Dr. Kershaw—and I were the group playing after Ms. Garcia." He pointed to the service units. "Those two are ours."
"This is your ball?"
"I didn't mean to hit her. Of all people."
"I'm sure you didn't. Did you touch it?"
He blushed strawberry. I was already figuring out this guy was a veritable rack of paint chips.
"I wiped off some mud with my towel."
Any more questions were drowned out by the belly-deep thumping of the helicopter.
That's when we'd invited Mr. Trebook up to the clubhouse for a chat. Jen figured that sounded friendlier than admitting we were going to grill the guy until he cracked. He was now on his own—Dr. Kershaw had insisted on accompanying Garcia in the chopper.
Jen began with an open-ended gambit: "That must have been quite a shock."
That's when Trebook said, "I never killed anyone before," and rushed out to toss what was left of his lunch.
When he returned, his face was gray-greeny white. We reassured him that Patty Garcia was still alive. He nodded, but it was obvious from the panic etching his face that he figured that might not be true for long.
Trebook closed his eyes and breathed like a yoga master. By the time he opened them, his tanned color was returning. It seemed to finally occur to him that his odds of getting dragged into a lawsuit were solid enough to turn an actuary into a gambling man. He abruptly announced that if we had any further questions, he wanted his lawyer at his side.
And so we said adios to the Timeless man who thought he had it all and headed down the long drive and out the polished gates of Viridian Green Golf Resort.

About the author: Michael Kaufman is the author of two novels and seven works of non-fiction. He has worked with the United Nations, governments, NGOs, educators, and companies in fifty countries to promote women's rights.

Website: https://michaelkaufman.com/ /Twitter: @KaufmanWrites / Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/MichaelKaufman.mk

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