Джеймс Паттерсон - The Summer House

“Not always,” Peggy says. “I’ve only been here five or so years.”

“Aren’t you from Sullivan?”

Peggy bursts out laughing. “Crap, no. Gad, is my accent that thick? No, I’m from North Carolina originally. This double-wide belonged to a distant uncle who passed on, and I was the nearest relative it was awarded to. Nope, went up to the University of Richmond for my degree in journalism, got my master’s at Columbia, went to work for the Times-Dispatch in Richmond, did some bureau work for the Associated Press, and then went to the Washington Post .”

The other cat jumps into her lap, and she scratches its head. Even from across the room, Connie can hear the loud purrs.

Peggy says, “You’re too polite to ask, so I’ll answer it for you. Special Agent York, I’m a drunk. Or alcoholic, if you prefer. Time came at the Post when early retirement was offered, and it was gently suggested that I depart, so I did. And when I woke up and dried out a couple of years later, here I was.”

“I see,” Connie says.

The woman keeps on rubbing the cat’s head. The purring stays constant.

“Peggy, what can you tell me about this county?”

The reporter doesn’t meet her eye, just keeps on rubbing and rubbing. “It’s a county. No better and no worse than most counties, I guess.”

“Then Sheriff Williams,” Connie says. “You’ve been here long enough to know her quite well. What’s she like?”

“Our blessed Emma Williams, high sheriff of Sullivan County?” Peggy asks. “She’s a fair, loving, and incorruptible law enforcement officer who is devoted to public service.”

The words say one thing; the woman’s tone says quite another.

“Peggy…”

“Oh, what does it matter?” Peggy says. “In a day or two you Army folks will be gone from Sullivan County. Those of us who stay here, who can’t or won’t move, we’ll still be around to have Sheriff Williams as our local and friendly chief law enforcement officer.”

“It matters a lot,” Connie says. “If it can make a difference in our investigation…please, Peggy, tell me what you know.”

Peggy looks up, eyes strained and worried. “Any way you can protect me?”

Connie says, “Truthfully? Probably not.”

She slowly nods. “The truth. A pretty rare jewel in this county.” Peggy takes a breath. “All right. Emma Williams is sheriff of Sullivan County, and she runs the biggest criminal enterprise in this part of Georgia. Not a gallon of moonshine, bale of marijuana, or kilo of crystal meth gets moved around or sold here without her knowledge, approval, and cut of the proceeds.”

The room is silent. The cat’s purrs are still loud.

Peggy says, “Think that’ll make a difference?”

Chapter 64

AFTER CONNIE YORK gave him the keys, Special Agent Manuel Sanchez switched to the driver’s seat and started up the car, then drove down the road a number of yards, turned around, and headed back up to the house where the newspaper reporter lives. When he was at a point where he could see the house and where the car wasn’t lit up by a streetlamp, he pulled over and switched off the engine. Now he waits.

Something they never show in cop shows or movies is just how much waiting there is. You wait for a warrant to be delivered from a judge. You wait at a suspect’s house. And most of all, you wait for a shift to end so you can go home safe to your family.

A cop’s most important job.

Lights appear at the end of the street, coming this way. Sanchez slides down so he isn’t silhouetted by the approaching headlights. They grow brighter and then dim as the car enters a driveway, backs out, and then returns the other way, parking right in front of the newspaper reporter’s house.

He sees the light bar across the roof of the car. A near streetlight illuminates a cruiser from the Sullivan County Sheriff’s Department.

How about that, Sanchez thinks.

He slides up and takes a better view. Looks like one deputy in the front seat. Just sitting, watching.

A flare of light, and the deputy lights up a cigarette.

That just pisses off Sanchez. It’s bad enough the sheriff’s department here is up to some nasty business concerning the Rangers, but this is just insulting, blatantly parking in front of the reporter’s house where York is, letting her know that every trip, every interview, is being tracked.

Insulting, it is.

Sanchez reaches up, switches off the dome light, and then opens the door, steps out. In the darkness, he smiles. Just like the old days, not like most of his past cases in the CID, tracking down a missing M240 machine gun or checking payroll receipts to see if some Army clerk has been skimming. This is going to be fun.

He smells cigarette smoke, gets closer to the open cruiser window. From his coat pocket he pulls out an object and shoves the hard edge against the deputy’s neck.

“Hands on the steering wheel, right now,” he snaps out, and the cigarette is dropped on the pavement, where Sanchez stubs it out.

“Hey, hey, do you know—”

“Shut up,” Sanchez says, pushing into the deputy’s neck harder. “Hands on the steering wheel. Don’t you do anything else but breathe.”

The deputy follows the instructions, and in the faint light from the interior it seems like his hands are shaking. Good.

Sanchez says, “You got poor training and situational awareness going on there, Deputy. You wouldn’t last an hour in any big-city department. What’s your name?”

“Dix,” the deputy says.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

The deputy’s voice is shaky. “I was ordered here.”

“Who gave you the order?”

“Sheriff Williams.”

“What are you supposed to do? Arrest the people in the house?”

“No, no, just keep an eye on the place. Make it public so they know they’re being watched.”

Sanchez says, “What’s the point?”

The deputy falls silent. Sanchez knows he’s treading on thin ice and makes it quick. “Answer me, and then I’ll let you be. Why does the sheriff want the people there to know they’re being watched?”

Dix says, “Sheriff Williams wants the Army out of here. Period. The end. Put enough pressure on them, she figures they’ll leave.”

“Why?”

The man emits a nervous laugh. “Mister, go ahead, pull the trigger, blow my brains over the windshield. A year ago some deputy was giving her a hard time about paperwork, overtime, shit like that, and he said he was going to make a complaint to the GBI. We never heard from him again. Never. He just got up…and disappeared.”

Sanchez thinks he’s pushed his luck and this guy too far. He says, “Time for you to slip out, Deputy. You just leave and tell the sheriff you did your job, that you were seen and that you’re doing your part to spread hate and discontent.”

Knowing he’s going to live, the deputy seems to find a stronger voice. “And who the hell are you?”

“A concerned bystander,” Sanchez says. “Now get going or your sheriff will get a call that you screwed up the job. Take one hand off the steering wheel, start up, and drive away, nice and slow.”

The deputy’s right hand goes down, the cruiser starts up, and he says, “Mister, you better hope I never run into you again. Threatening a police officer with a gun is serious business.”

Sanchez pulls his hand back, gently slaps the deputy on the cheek. “What’s the charge for threatening a cop with a smartphone case? Get going.”

He steps aside, and the cruiser speeds off. He turns and looks at the house where Cook and the journalist are talking about the case and, more important, what the hell is going on here in this county.

Sanchez puts the smartphone back into his coat pocket, removes his SIG Sauer from his waist holster, goes over to the Ford.