Джеймс Паттерсон - The Summer House

“Did you see who was driving?”

“This real angry-looking black man, and there was another fella sitting next to him. They both looked at me, and, Christ, I was scared. I don’t know why, but the way they looked at me, they frightened me some.”

“Had you ever seen those men before?”

“Nope.”

Sanchez is taking notes, mind dancing along, knowing that when this case comes to trial, she’s going to be one hell of a witness for the county.

“Ma’am, Sheriff Williams says you remembered the license plate of the truck. Is that right?”

“That’s right.”

“Well, excuse me for saying this, but did you write it down?”

“Nope.”

“Had you seen the truck before in the area?”

“Nope.”

“Then…”

The first smile of his visit appears. “You’re asking me how I remembered what I saw? Easy. I like doing them puzzle books, you know, fill in the blanks and the crossword puzzles? Letters and numbers, they stick with me. I remembered the first three letters and the first number…afraid I didn’t catch the rest.”

“And what was that?”

“The letters T-B-B , followed by the numeral 3. The sheriff later told me, when she thanked me for being a witness and picking those photos of those two fellas, she said she was able to trace down the letters and number and match it to that angry black guy driving the truck.”

“But the letters and the numeral 3? Why did you remember that?”

“Easy,” she says. “ T for Toby. And B-B because I call him Baby all the time. And the number 3—that’s how old he is. Toby Baby 3.”

Sanchez writes that down, as Toby Baby remains outside, howling and running.

“Ma’am, when did you learn about the murders?”

“When Deputy Coulson, when he came by the next day, asking me if I saw anything in the area the night before. I told him and gave him the license plate letters and number, and a few hours later, I was at the county building, talking to the sheriff.”

There you go, Sanchez thinks, and he says, “Ma’am, is there anything else you can tell me? Anything else at all?”

She shakes her head, the smile fading, still looking tired and discarded. “No, I can’t think of anything.”

Sanchez takes out his business card, passes it over. “Ma’am, thanks so much for your help. I greatly appreciate it. This card has the number for my cell phone and my office. You think of anything, anything at all, call me at any time.”

He gets up, and the woman looks at both sides of the card and says, “Is there a reward?”

Sanchez says, “If I find out there’s one, you’ll be the first to know.”

He gives the place one good last glance, from the piles of dirty dishes in the sink to the endless piles of mail and other junk to the two coats and umbrella hanging from the coatrack to the water bowl and bowl of food. There are also three doggie chew toys, neatly lined up. Two covered plastic bins neatly filled with dry dog food. A shelf that holds a grooming brush and small boxes of dog vitamins and pills.

Wendy opens the door, leading the way out, and yells, “Toby! Toby Baby! Come back home now! You come!”

He goes to his car, gives the woman a pleasant wave, gets into the car, and starts up the engine, letting the cold air just wash over him.

Sanchez makes a turn and then heads away from the woman’s home, wondering why Wendy Gabriel lied to him.

Chapter 16

CAPTAIN ALLEN PIERCE is lost, a feeling he hates, and he turns around once more in the town of Sullivan, looking for the district attorney’s office. Twice he has parked at the county courthouse, which also holds the sheriff’s department and is next to the county jail, and both times the doors were locked, even though an earlier phone call to the district attorney said he would be waiting for Allen in his office.

What the hell is going on here? Are the locals making fun of the Army outsiders and laughing while seeing them go around in circles? There’s been a group of residents sitting on benches across the way at a park that proudly boasts a Confederate Army soldier statue, and Allen is feeling that’s exactly what’s going on.

He looks at his iPhone, checks the address for District Attorney Cornelius Slate, sees the address, and—

The numbers don’t match.

On the wooden sign near the parking lot is the number 44, noting the street address for the county buildings.

Slate’s address is listed as 62 Sullivan Highway, also known as Route 119. Not in the county buildings after all.

He pulls out of the parking lot.

Fool, he thinks. Overreacting.

And lost to boot.

Fifteen minutes later, Allen’s in a renovated, light-yellow Victorian house where Cornelius Slate shares space with a dentist’s office. The heavyset, cheerful man putters around his crowded office, offering him coffee from a Keurig machine, talking about the weather, and inquiring about Allen’s travels. On a hardwood floor covered with dusty Oriental rugs sit bookshelves and filing cabinets, and framed black-and-white photos of what looks to be downtown Sullivan hang on the wall.

Slate is in his sixties, paunchy, wearing dark-green trousers with suspenders and a striped shirt, sleeves rolled up his beefy forearms. His head is fleshy, white hair combed back in a pompadour, and his black-rimmed reading glasses are perched halfway down his nose.

“Sorry I’m late,” Allen says for the third time since arriving.

“Ah, don’t worry about it,” Slate replies, making a dismissive wave of his hand. “Not all district attorneys in Georgia are high-paid employees of the county, hanging out in fancy courthouses. You get out of one of those urban counties like Chatham, where Savannah is, it gets rural real quick. There’s not enough crime around here to maintain a full-time district attorney, so I have my own practice and step up to the plate when need be. Which is an honor but can also cut down on some of my billable hours, not able to defend a client ’cause of the conflict of interest.”

“Have you been district attorney that long?” he asks.

“Ten years, and two more, God willing, if the good folks here in Sullivan County decide to return me to office.”

Allen holds the warm cup in his hands. “I’ve seen the campaign signs. For you, the sheriff, the congressman, others.”

“It’s that time of year,” he says. “Tell me, young fella, you seem a smart sort. Where did you go to school? How did you end up in the Army?”

“I went to Columbia,” Allen says. “One of my professors…he had been a first responder on 9/11 before going to law school. He died young of cancer, probably from working at the Towers after they came down.”

Slate nods. “Revenge, then.”

Allen corrects him. “Justice. And have you always practiced law here?”

The district attorney grins. “Sure looks like it, the messy office I got, the town where I live. Nope, I went to George Mason and then worked corporate law for Georgia-Pacific for lots of years. Ended up with a fat paycheck and sleepless nights. Quit Georgia-Pacific. Now I have a small paycheck and I sleep like the proverbial baby.”

Then he shakes his head and says, “Well, what a mess, eh? All those murders, those four Rangers arrested. And at The Summer House at that. What a goddamn shame, to see a lovely place like that get run-down and dirty, and then have all those folks get shot inside. A real damn shame.”

Slate leans back in his old-style office chair, which loudly creaks. “I can see why the Army sent a fella like you down here, but what’s your job? To defend them?”

“No,” Allen says, sipping the coffee, which is one of those vanilla blended-spice types he despises. “I’m part of an investigative unit assigned to high-profile crimes like this. We’re looking to gather information, ensure that all the facts are known.”