Джеймс Паттерсон - The Summer House

“Yes, sir,” I say.

“Good,” he says. “I’ll contact you once I have more information.”

My supervisor hangs up, and I throw the dead pen across the room, open the nightstand drawer—grimace again as my leg shouts at me—and find a new pen to scribble down a few more notes.

Then back to my iPhone. I need to reach out to the four members of my investigative unit, but there’s one call I need to make—and now—even though I’m dreading it.

I tap on the contact number—the number that last year was my home number—and wait for the call to be picked up in Staten Island, about 250 miles away.

It’s picked up after one ring, and the woman says, “What’s wrong?”

I rub the side of my head. “Sorry to do this, but I can’t come up tonight.”

“What about tomorrow?” she asks. “You know how much Kelli is looking forward to seeing you.”

“Tomorrow’s not going to work, and Monday won’t, either,” I say, hating to say these words.

“Jeremiah.”

“Yes.”

She says, “Work again?”

“Yes.”

“Germany?”

“No, that was last month. I’m leaving for Georgia later today. Is Kelli there?”

My ex-wife, Sandy, says, “No. But don’t you worry. I’ll tell her myself. How Dad is missing another volleyball tournament. And I’ll even tell Kevin you’re missing his Boy Scouts Court of Honor Monday night. Anything else I can do for you?”

Months ago these words were sharp blades that Sandy used so well, but now, after months of hearing them, the words have dulled some, though they still hurt.

“No, just tell them I’m sorry, that I’ll do my best to make it up to them.”

Sandy says, “Fine. And you got a call here from Gary O’Toole, wanting to know if you’re going to Pete Monahan’s retirement next month.”

“Pete?” I ask. “Pete’s pulling the pin?”

“That’s what Gary told me,” she says harshly, like I’m questioning her intelligence or her ability to listen carefully. “I guess Midtown South is planning a huge send-off. You should go.”

“No,” I say.

“You should go,” she repeats, “and you should kiss and make up with the chief of d’s…You know they were going to give you a nice desk job at One Police Plaza. I hear the offer is still out there, even if you’ve been a prick ever since you got hurt.”

I say, “Sandy, thanks for telling the kids I won’t make it. I’ll try to talk to them later this week.”

With that call out of the way, I send a text message to three members of my crew, giving them the raw basics. Rendezvous point and time to follow.

I pull up the contact of my fourth team member, but before I can call and speak to her directly, my iPhone chimes again. It’s Colonel Phillips.

He says, “More information, all bad.”

I get my new pen and pad and say, “Go ahead, sir.”

“The four Army personnel…they’re all Rangers. Assigned to the Fourth Ranger Battalion, stationed at Hunter Army Airfield.”

“Shit,” I say.

“Yeah,” Phillips says. “These aren’t four kids fresh out of Basic Training. Nope, these four are pros.”

“Names?”

“Jefferson, Barnes, Tyler, and Ruiz. Four-man fire team, part of Second Platoon, Alpha Company. Jefferson is a staff sergeant, fire-team leader.”

“Motive?”

“Your guess is as good as mine. And I got a count on the civilian deaths. Seven.”

Seven, I think. Seven civilians, gunned down by four Army Rangers. Jesus Christ on a crutch.

I’m in a race now, to see who’s going to get there first: my investigators and myself or CNN, Fox, MSNBC, and every journalist with a notepad, camera, or video equipment within a thousand-mile radius, ready to try to convict these men in thirty-second sound bites.

“Breakdown?”

He coughs once more. “Three men, three women. All shot at close range.”

I stop taking notes.

“Wait,” I say. “You said there were seven. And you said three men, three women. What’s the correct number?”

His breathing quivers for a long, long second.

“Six adults were shot,” he says. “And a two-year-old baby girl.”

Chapter 4

AT SAM’S INN RESTAURANT on Potomac Avenue in Quantico, Virginia, Special Agent Connie York of the Army’s Criminal Investigation Division glances at the dessert menu and quickly drops it on the table.

“Sorry, Pete,” she says, trying to smile at her date, a pudgy gent who owns a landscaping business in nearby Southbridge. “I really don’t have the appetite for dessert.”

Which is a lie, because she’s still hungry and loves sweets, and there’s a chocolate fudge cake on the menu that’s calling to her. But spending one more minute than necessary with Pete Laurion is going to be intolerable. Oh, not that he’s a bad guy, but her condo neighbor Claire hooked her up with him, and since Claire took care of her leaky toilet while Connie was on a recent deployment to Germany, it was a favor she was happy to do.

But just this once.

Pete seems intimidated by the other customers in the restaurant, mostly off-duty Marine and Navy personnel, and his thick fingers end with nails that still have a ridge of dirt under them. His heavy blue eyes flick around the place, like he’s expecting some officer to make him drop to the ground and do fifty push-ups. Yesterday Claire said, Pete’s a bit rough around the edges, hon, but he’s got a good heart. And it’ll be a nice change of pace from those gung-ho guys you always end up with.

Which is true, for along with her ten years of service in the Army have come two failed marriages, both to fellow investigators in the Army’s CID. While she feels she’s good at solving crimes, Connie admits she so far hasn’t puzzled out the secrets of a happy relationship.

Pete smiles with hope in his eyes. “I understand, you wanting to keep your figure and all that. Can I call you later?”

Her iPhone starts chiming, and with a sense of relief, she pulls it out of her purse and sees a familiar name. To Pete she says, “Oh, I don’t think so. But thanks for the brunch.”

With iPhone in one hand and purse in the other, she steps out onto a crowded deck, drops her purse onto the decking, and puts the phone up to one ear while plugging the other ear with a finger. “York,” she answers.

“It’s Cook,” he says. “Call you at a bad time?”

“Actually, Major, it’s a great time,” she says. “I needed the break.”

“I hear people and music in the background. A date?”

She shakes her head. “No, a dull brunch. What do we have?”

The tone of his voice instantly changes. “A red ball case, down in Georgia. Seven civilians killed in a house in the town and county of Sullivan. Four Rangers from Hunter Army Airfield have been arrested and are currently in the custody of the county sheriff.”

“Oh, shit,” she says.

“Get down to Georgia, soon as you can. I’ve called out Pierce, Huang, and Sanchez, but you’ll be the first on the scene.”

“Yes, sir,” she says.

“And once you get there, arrange transport to Sullivan and get us accommodations with an extra room to use as a meeting area. You’re not going to talk to the county sheriff, the State Patrol, the Georgia Bureau of Investigation, or any news media.”

“Yes, sir,” she says again, biting off the words. “You want me to set up housekeeping, am I right?”

“Agent York,” he says, his voice just as sharp, “that’s right. And I’m trusting you, as my second-in-command, to do that job to the best of your abilities. Got it, York?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good,” he says. “And among the civilian dead is a two-year-old girl. So enough with the pushback.”