Джеймс Паттерсон - The Summer House

“Incoming Fourth Estate,” Sanchez says.

Through a grimace—no doubt from his aching leg—Cook says, “Just ignore them.”

Connie gets to the church door first and opens it up, and a plump woman in a pink dress holding a clipboard and a deputy sheriff in a brown-and-tan uniform are standing there. The deputy sheriff—LINDSAY, according to his name tag—says, “Help you folks?”

From behind them Connie hears voices say, “Hold on, just a moment, please, we have some questions…”

Cook says, “Major Jeremiah Cook, Army CID, with Special Agents York and Sanchez. We’re here to see Sheriff Williams.”

The woman frowns as she looks down at the clipboard, but the young uniformed man says, “Bonnie, it’s okay, the sheriff told me they were coming in.”

They slip inside, and Connie looks back as the TV crews and reporters try to come in, but Bonnie—raising the clipboard like a shield—holds them back, saying over and over again, “I’m sorry, you’re not on the list…I’m sorry, you’re not on the list…”

The interior of the hall is hot and crowded, with rows of folding chairs packed with people, and at the other end of the hall—flanked by US and Georgia state flags—a ruddy-faced man with carefully set black hair, wearing a gray suit, white shirt, and red tie and standing on a small stage, speaks into a wireless microphone, an arm around the shoulders of Sheriff Emma Williams. Four male deputies stand to the other side of the man speaking, all four looking embarrassed to be there.

“And I know you people well, and your brothers and sisters, serving overseas, for whom I pledge my undying assistance, many of whom I’ve met firsthand. And I thank Sheriff Williams and everyone here in Sullivan County for your continuing and deep support, which I’ll take with me to the United States Senate! Thank you and God bless!”

Whoops, hollers, and applause, the flashing of cameras, and the man hands off his microphone to an aide, turns and gives the sheriff a handshake and a peck on the cheek, and then moves into the crowd.

Major Cook raises his voice to Deputy Lindsay. “Who’s that?”

“Him?” Lindsay answers. “That there’s Representative Mason Conover from Georgia’s First District, and in less than two weeks he’s gonna be one of our new senators. Come along, folks, I know Sheriff Williams wants to see you.”

The large, muscular deputy sheriff clears a path for Connie, Sanchez, and the major, and Connie has the oddest feeling she’s met Lindsay before, which is impossible. But there’s that little itch at the base of her skull that tells her she knows him from somewhere.

Large campaign signs, including Conover’s, are tacked up around the walls, naming other candidates, from potential Congress members to potential sheriffs—and there’s Williams’s name, and sure enough, there’s Briggs, the local funeral home director, running again for county coroner.

What a way to run a county, she thinks, and then she, Sanchez, and the major are ushered into a kitchen area, with sinks, refrigerators, stoves, and metal countertops. Sheriff Williams is sitting on a stool near a shiny metal preparation table, and she takes off her round dark-brown uniform hat, revealing a band of sweat above her brow.

“Politics,” she says. “Ain’t it something?”

The three of them take stools around the preparation table as the sheriff turns to the deputy and says, “Clark? Do me a favor and ask Zell to come in here with my business case. Thanks.”

After he departs, she smiles and says, “My deputies, all good boys. So proud of ’em.”

With just the four of them now in the kitchen, Williams says, “Can I get you folks something cold to drink?”

Sanchez keeps his mouth shut. Connie could use something to cut the dryness in her mouth but senses tension from her boss and waits for him to take the lead.

“No,” he says. “We’re fine.”

Another deputy sheriff comes in, carrying a soft brown leather satchel, which he hands over to the sheriff, and, damn it, Connie has the very same feeling as before. She has the oddest sense that she knows this man, too, just like the other deputy. Or at least has seen them before.

What is going on with her? The heat? The lack of sleep? The meals that aren’t anything but deep-fried?

The sheriff reaches into the case, slips out a manila folder, and then pulls a photo from the folder. “This fella. He sure looks familiar, now, doesn’t he?”

Williams slides the photo across, and she and Cook give it a look. It’s a Savannah Police Department booking photo of a young man, and she instantly recognizes him.

“That’s Stuart Pike,” she says. “The man found in the second-floor bedroom, still in bed.”

“That’s right,” Williams says. “He’s the official renter for The Summer House, and he was involved in a bit more than moving marijuana.” She taps her finger on the photo. “Seems he was arrested last month, for selling fentanyl near Savannah State University. Out on bail. We here in the county didn’t know about this sideline of his, ’cause if we did, we would have gotten to him earlier.”

Another photo comes out and is placed on the table, next to the booking shot. This is a formal color photo, of a young and, Connie notes, very attractive African American woman wearing a light-blue formal dress. Her smile is wide and confident, and her eyes seem bright with joy and intelligence.

Sanchez asks, “Who is this young lady?”

“Carol Crosby,” Williams says. “A junior at Savannah State. She’s studying marine biology, did an internship last year up in Maine, at the Shoals Marine Laboratory. Perfect 4.0 grade-point average. A couple of weeks ago, though, poor Carol was at an off-campus party. Looks like her drink got spiked, maybe as a joke, maybe by mistake.”

Connie says, “An overdose, then.”

Williams nods. “Oh, yes. It was touch and go for a while, but now she’s in recovery over in Hilton Head, taking some time off from school.”

Cook says, “What’s the connection?”

Another tap of the finger. “This girl here. Carol Crosby.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t understand,” Cook says.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Williams says, though her voice is definitely not sympathetic. “I thought you Army investigators would have known all of this. Carol Crosby, she’s the stepdaughter of Staff Sergeant Jefferson, the head of that Ranger squad. Her mamma died a few years back from cancer, and Staff Sergeant Jefferson, he’s been a proud single parent ever since.”

Even with what’s going on in the adjacent function hall, Connie feels like it’s gotten awfully quiet.

Williams says, “Detective Josh Gregory, over in Savannah, when he heard about the Rangers being arrested, he dug back some and came up with Mr. Pike here. You see, Pike was arrested by a drug squad headed by Josh’s crew near the college campus, and a while later some guy called up, asking for information about whether Pike was the source of the fentanyl that nearly killed young Carol Crosby. The caller said he was calling from Hunter, and the detective who answered the phone, he used to be stationed there…Well, it ended up the detective bent investigation protocol and told this caller that, yes, Pike was the supplier.”

Cook looks down again at the two photos. “And?”

“And the caller said, ‘Well, that man and whoever’s working with him, they’re gonna pay a price.’ And hung up. Josh did some additional digging around, couriered these photos over to me, with one other bit of information.”

“What’s that?” Connie asks.

Sheriff Williams picks up the two photos—one of a now dead man, the other of a nearly dead woman—and puts them back into her satchel. “That call came from Staff Sergeant Jefferson’s cell phone.”