Джеймс Паттерсон - The Summer House

The coffee is hot, spicy, and sweet. “What is this?”

“It’s café de olla, Major,” he says, settling back with his own coffee cup in hand. “It’s a nice medium roast, but there’s cinnamon in there, along with an orange peel.”

I gingerly take another sip. I like it.

I ask, “How did you convince the news media to stop banging on my door?”

“Not just your door, sir,” he says. “Everyone’s.”

“Damn uncomfortable out here.”

He shrugs. “No worries. Besides, the doc, he snores something awful.”

“The reporters give you any trouble?”

Sanchez looks like I’ve just asked him if he cheated on a final exam. “Oh, no, they were quite sweet and cooperative. I love the press, and once they get to know me, the love comes right back.”

Right, I think.

I curl my hands around the ceramic cup, warm them. “What do you think?”

Sanchez frowns. “It’s a crap show for sure, Major. I don’t envy whoever’s going to rep those four…The evidence seems pretty overwhelming. You know? Lots of evidence and pieces…but…”

I wait. Sanchez will talk when he’s ready.

“It’s like, you know, we got a big puzzle and lots of pieces. The fingerprints. The shell casings. The witness supposedly seeing them drive out, even if her story’s kinda weak. The store surveillance tape. And now we find out from the sheriff that it looks like the Rangers killed all those folks for revenge. Lots of pieces.”

“Agreed,” I say.

Sanchez puts his cup down on the cracked concrete. “But the pieces aren’t fitting. Like, to make ’em fit, like a jigsaw puzzle, you have to do what my tio Pepe would do. When he’d get pissed doing a jigsaw puzzle, he’d take a pair of shears and cut the pieces to fit. That’s what I feel like. To make everything fit, we need to trim stuff.”

“You’re not liking the evidence?”

“Oh, no, Major, I’m loving the evidence. Makes me think we can wrap this up in a few days so I can go home to my familia . But still…I can’t see the Rangers killing all those innocents. Maybe the dealer, maybe a couple of others if they came after them with guns. But it looks like the civilians were surprised. A few of them were playing video games. The oldest woman, she was hiding and was dragged out from underneath the bed.”

I say the words I hate saying. “Then there’s the little girl.”

“Brrr,” he says. “That’s stone-cold, it is. I can’t see that. The Rangers, ’cept for the youngest one, they’re hanging tough. You’d think if they didn’t do it they’d be screaming that they’re innocent. So why aren’t they doing that? And then there’s my dog walker, who claims she saw that crew leave the house after all the shooting. Major, no way did she see that.”

I nod in reply, sip from my coffee, enjoying the dark pre-morning before the sun rises, before more phone calls and messages and questioning.

“After another briefing and a breakfast, you’re off to the dog walker again,” I say. “Get her story straight. Pierce is going back to the district attorney, get a read on when the first court hearing will be held. I’ll have Dr. Huang reinterview that young Ranger, and Connie and I, we’re off to that convenience store that caught surveillance footage of those four the night of the murders. And then we’re off to Hunter. When we come back, you’ll join us to examine the bodies at the funeral home.”

Sanchez nods. “Sounds like a full day.”

Recalling what I found earlier in the Rangers’ service records, I say, “By the end of the day, I want more pieces. And I want them to fit.”

Chapter 30

DESPITE ITS NARROW AISLES, the Route 119 Gas N’ Go is well stocked. Its overflowing shelves boast everything from motor oil to fishing lures to canned goods to paper products, with coolers and freezers at the far end. Special Agent Connie York is up at the front of the store with Major Jeremiah Cook.

Behind the checkout counter topped with dispensers of cigarette packs and tins of chewing tobacco is Vihan Laghari, the store’s smiling owner dressed in jeans and a pink Lacoste polo shirt. He has a thick black moustache, two gold chains around his neck, and three gold rings on his hands, which he constantly rubs as he speaks. He says in barely accented English, “A bad deal, what happened. A very bad deal.”

“It certainly was,” Cook says, smiling. “And for the third time, please, Mr. Laghari, may we see the video surveillance from that evening?”

“Of course, of course. Right this way, good sir, good ma’am,” he says, going to the other end of the counter and gesturing them in. A young boy and girl look up from their cell phones, smile, and go back to whatever games they’re playing. They’re wearing khaki shorts and bright-yellow T-shirts printed with the store’s logo.

York takes in the crowded work area. More cigarettes, large plastic bins with lottery scratch-off tickets—or, as they’re called here, scratchers —and, underneath the counter and cash register, a color television with a bright, sharp picture. She’s not sure what the program is, but it’s some sort of musical number with young Indian men and women in bright clothes dancing in a meadow somewhere.

On the side counter, a large computer screen displaying four surveillance video feeds is hooked up to a laptop. One shows the store entrance, the second shows the outside with the four gas pumps, the third shows the rear of the store, and the fourth focuses on the cashier area. She sees herself, Cook, and Laghari on the screen.

“See?” he points out. “Recording all the time, twenty-four/seven. For two days, then records over. When we heard about those dreadful murders, dear me…Sheriff Williams, she asked me if I saw anything that night, and I said no, the usual customers.” Laghari shakes his head. “But later she came back and asked to review that Wednesday night. She was looking for something.”

Cook asks, “Did she tell you what?”

Another shake of his head. “No, no, no. Just a review of a few hours, and she spotted it. She thanked me very much for my help. Would you like to see that Wednesday night? I kept a copy of what I gave to the sheriff.”

“Very much so,” Cook says.

“My boy, Prince, he will help,” the store owner says. “He knows all this computer stuff.”

Laghari speaks loudly in a burst of Hindi, and the young boy gets off his stool, puts down his handheld device, and comes over. “Sure, bapu, ” he says. The young boy works the keyboard, and the live feed of the surveillance cameras shrinks to a small square in the corner. His fingers rapidly go to work, and then…

Up comes a recording.

“Here,” the boy says. “Here’s what the sheriff copied.”

York’s throat thickens as she watches the footage, and she feels her heart rate increase.

A pickup truck pulls up to the front of the store. Four men get out, and she recognizes the four Rangers: Staff Sergeant Caleb Jefferson, Corporal Curtis Barnes, Specialist Vinny Tyler, and Specialist Paulie Ruiz. Jefferson and Barnes go to the store’s rear cooler section, grabbing some type of power drinks. As they’re in the store, Tyler and Ruiz remain outside, smoking cigarettes and having a heated discussion, lots of finger-pointing and arm-waving.

Connie checks the time stamp. The day is last Wednesday. The time is 7:40 p.m.

Twenty minutes or so before they’re seen leaving the site of the killings.

Jefferson pays cash for the drinks. Barnes is behind him, face hard and determined.

Laghari works the cash register, and then the two Rangers leave. Tyler and Ruiz drop their cigarettes on the ground.

“See?” Laghari asks. “Just what I saw that night…soon before the dreadful murders.”