Джеймс Паттерсон - The Summer House

Without asking for direction from me, her commanding officer, Connie picks up the courtesy phone.

“Hello?” she says. “Yes, who’s this, please? Jim Briggs, thank you. Could you meet me at your door, please? I’m Special Agent Connie York from the US Army, here with Major Jeremiah Cook. Yes. We’re Army investigators and—thank you, we’ll wait.”

Connie’s face is red and shiny with perspiration, and strands of her blond hair are sticking to her forehead, but she still looks great. She catches me looking at her and says, “What?”

“Been a long day,” I say.

“Yeah, and not much progress,” she says. “I hope the others have something to show for it.”

“When we’re done here, send out a group text,” I reply. “Time for a session back at the motel before we call it a night.”

Connie looks over my shoulder at a nearby brick building with a concrete chimney and then the three-car garage and says, “Think that’s where they keep the hearses?”

“Watch your language,” I say. “They’re called coaches.”

Inside the funeral home lights click on.

“Duly noted,” Connie says. “Funny thing, the county coroner being a funeral director.”

“Lots of funny things here in Sullivan County,” I say. “And it’s an elected position. Meaning the good citizens of this county didn’t vote him in just because he’s got a degree in forensics or forensic anthropology. He’s here because probably he treats the locals with respect, sympathy, and doesn’t overcharge them for pretty boxes with shiny handles.”

“Aren’t you the cynic today,” she says, smiling. “Sir.”

Flying insects are hammering themselves against two yellow light bulbs when the rear door is unlocked, and a young man steps out, straightening his thin black necktie.

To Connie I say, “It’s a day ending in y …Thank you, sir, for coming to see us. Mr. Briggs, I’m Major Cook, and this is Special Agent York. We’re with the Army’s Criminal Investigation Division.”

He’s about a half foot taller than me, early twenties, skinny, and he runs one hand through a thick tangle of brown hair while trying to tighten the knot on his necktie with the other. He has on black trousers, black shoes, a white dress shirt that’s wrinkled, and I have three quick assumptions: one, he’s wearing this clothing on a Sunday evening because his father told him to; two, like it or not, he’s going to inherit this family business one of these days; and three, he’s probably not alone back there in the funeral home. He’s either with someone else or a video game. I know I wouldn’t want to be alone, with bodies being stored in the building’s basement.

“Ah, heck, you can call me Jimmy,” he says. “But I need to ask to see your IDs. A couple of months ago some guy from the Georgia State Patrol came by and I was fixin’ him coffee, and Daddy nearly tore my head off when he came over and found out I didn’t know if the guy was official or not.”

Connie displays her shield, as do I, and she says, “Was he official?”

“Oh, yeah, but that didn’t mean anything,” he says shyly. “Daddy was still upset. What can I do for you folks?”

I take a breath as a new, stronger wave of pain radiates up and down my leg. “I understand the county coroner’s office is located here. Am I right?”

Jimmy nods. “One hundred percent. Daddy’s been coroner for twelve years, and in less than two weeks he’s going to be reelected.”

“Do you have the bodies of the…folks who were murdered this past Wednesday, here in storage?” I ask.

His face seems even more yellow in the light. “Blessed Jesus, that we do. We’re lucky that two of the guys were pretty skinny. We were able to put them together on one tray, and the mom and her kid…” He swallows, revealing a prominent Adam’s apple. “Bless ’em all.”

“We’d like to examine them, please,” I say.

“Now? You mean…right now?”

“That’s right,” I say.

He shakes his head. “Can’t do it, sir. Can’t.”

I say, “You’ve seen our shields. We’ve identified ourselves. Four Army Rangers have been arrested for those murders. We’d like your assistance in our investigation.”

Another shake of the head, and he takes a step back into the funeral home, like he’d rather be in a place storing seven dead civilians than be out here with us.

“I can’t do that. Honest, I can’t,” he says. “Daddy would have my hide.”

I don’t have to say anything, but Connie steps into play, smiling.

“I appreciate what you’re saying, Jimmy, but we’re from the Army, trying to do a very hard job,” she says, her voice sweet and calming. “I know you don’t want to disappoint your father—he does seem very strict—but he did leave you in charge, didn’t he? And I know this area of the country is very, very patriotic. Don’t you want to help us? Support the troops right here by letting us into your business?”

I think Connie is on the mark, but Jimmy shakes his head and starts closing the door. “Daddy’ll be here tomorrow, after 9:00 a.m. You can try him then.”

The door gets closed and locked, and one by one, the lights here on the first floor switch off.

Connie sighs, wipes her face. “Once, boss, I saw this horror movie about a funeral home, where the dead all rise during the night and tear the funeral home owner to pieces. Before they get really nasty, that is.”

“Sometimes dreams don’t come true,” I say. “Send out the text. Let’s get back to the motel.”

In the car, I sit down with a grimace and buckle up. Connie works her phone a moment before starting the Ford Fusion, then switching on the air conditioner and headlights. Just as she gets us back on the road, another car up the street pulls out.

I grip my cane, occasionally glancing at the side-view mirror, as we drive along, taking a turn or two.

Connie checks her phone quickly and says, “Done, sir. Everybody is coming back in. Should be ready in about thirty minutes.”

“Good,” I say. “Anything else?”

“Yes, sir,” she says. “Ever since we left that funeral home, we’ve been followed. I even made a slight detour, and those headlights never left us.”

“Good call, Agent York,” I say, looking again in the side-view mirror. “Let’s do something about it.”

“You want me to lose them?” she asks.

I painfully shift in my seat, remove my SIG Sauer.

“No,” I say. “I want you to stop them.”

Chapter 22

SPECIAL AGENT YORK has worked long enough with Major Cook to know that when he makes a request like this one, he doesn’t want to get a lot of questions in return. Just get the job done. Connie likes working for a supervisor who has confidence in his employees without micromanaging them.

Connie says, “Yes, sir. I’m on it. Make sure your seat belt is nice and tight.”

“It is,” he says, holding the pistol and the door handle. “Just don’t crash us.”

Connie starts accelerating. “What, you don’t like my driving?”

“I don’t like filling out motor vehicle accident paperwork,” he says. “Go.”

Connie goes, speeding up even more.

The car behind them speeds up as well.

The lights from the small businesses and homes flash by as she quickly exceeds the forty-mile-an-hour speed limit and goes right up to sixty, which is as much as she dares on this narrow road.

A look in the rearview mirror.

Still there.

She thinks of saying that maybe those are cops back there, but she keeps her mouth shut. The major certainly isn’t afraid or concerned about being pulled over, so why mention it?

Focus on the driving.

The road sweeps to the left, and there’s a squeal of tires as she handles the Ford nice and tight, keeping it in their lane, making sure they don’t drift over the solid yellow line.