Джеймс Паттерсон - The Summer House

The number is ANONYMOUS, and before she answers, York says, “It’s settled, then. Pierce, when you go to Ralston, I want Huang to go along. Another set of eyes and ears will prove helpful.”

Huang says, “Glad to be there, ma’am.”

Nodding, York turns around on the picnic table bench, accepts the incoming call, and says, “Hello?”

“Who’s this?” comes a suspicious-sounding woman’s voice.

“This is Special Agent Connie York, Army CID.”

“Oh,” the woman says. “Just wanted to make sure. I saw that you’d been calling me all day, leaving messages and such, but I wanted to make sure. This is Peggy Reese, Sullivan County Times .”

York gets up and walks away from the table where Pierce, Sanchez, and Huang are still sitting, wanting to focus entirely on this call.

“Mrs. Reese, I can’t tell you—”

She laughs. “Ah, hell, ma’am, I ain’t no missus. You can call me Peggy.”

“And you can call me Connie,” she says. “I would love a chance to talk with you.”

“Oh, wouldn’t that be nice,” she says. “I’m afraid I’m busy for a bit with my Walmart shift.”

“But you said you were from the newspaper.”

“I am from the newspaper,” she says. “In fact, I was out this afternoon trying to sell ads and I left my damn cell phone at home. I also do photo work and most of the typesetting, and with all that, I still can’t make a living. But I’m a damn good reporter.”

“I see,” York says. “Then let’s make an appointment. I’d be open for an interview if that’s what you’re looking for.”

“You know it,” she says. “How does tomorrow afternoon sound? Say, around this time?”

No, no, no, York thinks. We don’t have the time.

“Can’t we do it earlier? After you get out of work?”

A slight pause. “I guess we can, if you don’t mind meeting with me late. You see, my stocking job, it usually gets me off at about 2:00 a.m. Think you’ll be up to seeing me then, ’fore I go to sleep?”

“I’m sure I will be,” York says.

“Tell you what, we get off the phone here, I’ll send you a text with directions to my place. How does that sound?”

“Sounds great,” she says. “We’ll be there.”

The tone instantly changes. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Who said anything about ‘we’? Who’s this ‘we’? Your boss?”

York quickly thinks and comes up with an answer. “No, he’s working the case elsewhere. I was planning to bring one of my other investigators along.”

“Nope,” she says. “Not going to happen. Either you by yourself or there’s no meeting. Got it?”

York looks over at her three men. “All right, then it’ll be just me. Alone.”

“Fine.”

A pickup truck pulls in, sending up some dust from the restaurant’s unpaved parking lot. York says, “May I ask you why you only want me there?”

Peggy says, “You may,” and then disconnects the call.

York goes back to the picnic table, sits down. The three men look at her, and she says, “That was the reporter from the local paper. I’m talking to her later tonight.”

Sanchez says, “What the hell do you want to do that for? I thought it was a mistake the first time you called her, back when you climbed out of the Dumpster. Dealing with reporters is always a mistake. They all have an agenda, and they always screw up the story.”

She picks up a plastic cup filled with sweet tea, takes a sip, and decides she’s never drinking tea, ever again. “Because the boss thought it would be a two-way street, me giving her a story, her giving us an idea of what the hell the local landscape is like. Right now we’re operating in a fog, only getting information that someone is tossing in our direction.”

Pierce says, “I think you’re right, ma’am. Even with Staff Sergeant Jefferson changing his mind, it’d be helpful to know the background of the players around here. Finding out our rooms were bugged, seeing how two main witnesses have fled, and having the kill house burn down…it all points to trouble.”

Out on Route 119, a brown-and-white Sullivan County Sheriff’s Department cruiser slows down and comes into the restaurant’s parking lot. It stops in the middle and sits there. A male deputy sheriff in the front seat looks at them.

Sanchez says, “There’s our trouble, right there. That sheriff and her staff. You know, maybe talking to that reporter is a good idea after all.”

York turns her head and stares at the deputy sheriff. A stocky, broad-shouldered young man, who locks eyes with Connie.

She stares right back and says, “Well, Agent Sanchez, so nice to have you on board.”

Huang says, “Should we leave?”

Connie says, “No. We stay. Let him leave first.”

Pierce says, “Might take a while. Huang and I need to get to Ralston eventually.”

She won’t break the stare. To the JAG lawyer, she says, “You two can head out. Me, I don’t have a bus to catch.”

The men stay put for the time being, and the wait goes on.

Then the cruiser slowly turns around and leaves the parking lot. York turns back to the three men and rubs her eyes.

“Looks like you won that round, ma’am,” Pierce says.

“Maybe so,” she says. “But I’d love to know how many more rounds are waiting for us out there.”

Chapter 59

IN A SMALL waiting area outside Chief Kane’s office, the chief comes from a corridor leading into the jail’s interior and shakes his head. “Sorry, Dr. Huang, the Ranger won’t see no one but Captain Pierce here and Mr. Slate.”

Huang just gives a slight nod of his head, but Pierce feels bad for the doc. Maybe it was the staff sergeant’s decision, but the tone of the chief’s message was that of the old voice telling those with a different skin hue in this part of the world to stay in their place.

“All right, Doc,” Pierce says, standing up and taking his briefcase with him. “I’ll be back shortly. Don’t do anything untoward and find yourself in one of these cells.”

Huang manages a smile. “Maybe the food is better.”

“Hate to say it, but you might be right.”

He walks down the short and narrow concrete-block hallway with Chief Kane and asks, “Any idea when the district attorney is arriving?”

Kane says, “Just a few minutes. He called me from his car. I’ll make sure he gets in with you and Staff Sergeant Jefferson.”

They’re outside a heavy metal door with a sign saying ALL CONVERSATIONS SUBJECT TO AUDIO AND VIDEO RECORDING. Pierce says, “Staff Sergeant Jefferson has requested me to be here. You’ll make sure that all recording devices are switched off?”

“They already are,” he says.

“You sure?”

His eyes flash with anger. “Positive.”

“Glad to hear it,” Pierce says as the chief unlocks the door. “Again, any idea what’s on Jefferson’s mind?”

“Not a clue.”

Pierce enters the interview room, and it seems the chief takes great satisfaction in slamming the door shut.

The small room is depressingly similar to others Pierce has visited over the years, although those were always at Army posts. But this one would fit right in, with its pale-green concrete-block walls, scuffed tile floor, and round table with four light-orange plastic chairs.

The door opens and Cornelius Slate comes in, smiling, wearing a seersucker suit with a white shirt and a red bowtie. He looks like the stereotype of a Southern lawyer, complete with sweat stains around his armpits.

Pierce so wants to punch that older man in the face, but he restrains himself, and after a brief handshake, Slate takes the seat across from him and drops his black leather briefcase on the table.

“Damn hot today, isn’t it?” he says. “Last week of October and Election Day is next Tuesday, but it still feels like the middle of August.”