Джеймс Паттерсон - The Summer House

Two other deputies follow him, carrying shotguns.

Pierce says, “Good morning, Deputy Clark. Taking time away from ironing your white sheets to play bus driver?”

Clark comes up close to Pierce, and Pierce doesn’t budge an inch. Clark grins. “Boy, one of these days, you’re gonna leave. And I’m gonna stay right here, and Sullivan County will get right back to where it belongs.”

Pierce says, “In 1950?”

“No,” he says, “where people mind their business. Now get out of my way. Me and my boys got work to do.”

“No problem,” Pierce says, just as the Ralston police chief, Richard Kane, comes in, carrying a clipboard.

“Clark,” the chief says, looking worn down, his thick moustache drooping. “Glad to see you here. Let’s get this taken care of so we can get back to normal.”

The chief takes out a key set, unlocks the door leading into the cell area, and the three deputies walk in. Pierce follows as well, with Huang right behind him. Deputy Lindsay sees this and says, “Hey, Chief, those Army guys shouldn’t be here! Keep ’em out!”

Pierce won’t let the chief answer and says, “Let us in, Chief. You don’t want an accident or anything untoward to happen to the staff sergeant right now, do you? Dr. Huang and I will just be witnesses, representing the US Army.”

Deputy Lindsay says, “Dick, I’m telling you, keep those soldier boys out!”

“Well…” Chief Kane starts.

Pierce is pleased when Huang jumps in. “Chief Kane, this is your facility, correct? Not the county sheriff’s, am I right? That means only you have the authority here, not Deputy Lindsay.”

The chief has a sly smile on his face, like after months of losing at poker with the deputy, he’s about to win this hand. “That’s right. C’mon, Clark. It’ll only take a few minutes.”

The deputy says, “I won’t forget this, Dick. And neither will the sheriff.”

Pierce says, “Fine, none of us will forget it. We’ll all be Mensa candidates later today. After you, Chief.”

The small procession goes down the concrete hallway, past two interview rooms, and then to the cells.

The three Army Rangers are standing straight and tall, hands right beside their legs. Staff Sergeant Caleb Jefferson steps close to the bars. “Nice group of visitors,” he says. “What a lucky guy I must be.”

Deputy Lindsay steps forward and says, “Caleb Jefferson, my deputies and I are here to transport you to the Sullivan County Superior Courthouse. Put your hands through the cell door, we’ll get you cuffed and on your way.”

Pierce sees Jefferson’s dark eyes narrow. “What about my guys? Corporal Barnes and Specialist Ruiz? That was part of the deal. They go free.”

Chief Kane speaks up. “Not a problem, Staff Sergeant. I got a phone call a few minutes ago from the district attorney, Mr. Slate. He says your men will be released by the end of the day today. Seems there’s so much going on at the courthouse, he just can’t get away at the moment.”

Jefferson doesn’t say a word but quickly looks over at the other two Rangers. “All right,” he says. “Chief, I’m holding you responsible for my guys’ safety and freedom. Just make sure it happens.”

Deputy Lindsay says, “Boy, you threatenin’ the police chief?”

“No,” he says, thrusting his hands through the cell door opening. “Not making a threat, just making sure there’s no misunderstanding down the road.”

Lindsay takes handcuffs from his duty belt, snaps them shut around Jefferson’s wrists. “Step back now.”

Jefferson takes three steps back, and Chief Kane unlocks the cell door, swings it open. Jefferson steps forward, and the other two Rangers snap to attention.

“You take care, Sergeant,” Barnes says.

“We got your back, Sergeant,” Ruiz says.

As the procession makes its way out of the cell area, Chief Kane says to no one in particular, “That was weird. I thought those two other fellas, I thought they were going to give him a salute.”

Pierce says, “That’s Hollywood bullshit. Nobody gives a salute indoors, and nobody gives a salute as a prisoner.”

“Oh,” the chief says.

“Yeah,” Pierce says. “This is reality, as real as it gets.”

Chapter 87

SPECIAL AGENT MANUEL SANCHEZ is sitting in a corner of trauma room 2 with a grievously injured Special Agent Connie York in a hospital bed and one dead assailant sprawled out on the floor. Nothing you really see in cop TV shows or movies, but after just a few minutes a freshly shot body starts to smell, when certain muscles relax and let loose body waste, and now it’s been hours, and long hours at that.

Sanchez is on the floor, with a chair and a small cabinet dragged in front to offer some mode of protection. He’s impressed that he’s managed to stay awake during the night. A few hours ago it looked like a small black snake was about to come into the room, but Sanchez knew it was a flexible optic surveillance device, checking out the situation.

He resisted an urge to give it a cheery wave.

Now suddenly a strong male voice comes from the outside corridor. “Hello, the room!”

Sanchez says, “Hello right back!”

The man says, “I’m Lieutenant Harry Lightner, Savannah Police Department. Who am I talking to?”

“Special Agent Manuel Sanchez, US Army CID,” he says. “Nice to make your acquaintance.”

“Same here,” the Savannah officer replies. “We’ve got quite the situation here, don’t we?”

“That’s true, amigo,” Sanchez says.

“You seem pretty concerned about Agent York’s safety.”

“Yep.”

“You said earlier that you’d only allow two medical personnel at a time into the room to check on Agent York,” Lightner says.

“Roger that,” Sanchez says.

“You know we can’t allow that, not with you holding a weapon and having discharged it.”

Sanchez doesn’t know much about emergency medicine, but in looking up at the equipment stationed near York, nothing seems to be in the red or sounding off an alarm.

“Ah, gee, Lieutenant,” Sanchez says, “just when I was beginning to establish a bond of trust with you, you have to go ahead and spoil it by insulting me. I didn’t discharge my service weapon. I shot a guy trying to murder my boss. And you know and I know he doesn’t work for the hospital. I bet you’ve done a head count of the hospital’s security staff and there isn’t one missing.”

Sanchez waits for a reply, and then the lieutenant says, “You know, this yelling back and forth, it sure is cumbersome. How about I slide in a portable phone, we can talk easier?”

Sanchez laughs. “Sure. A portable phone with a hidden microphone and camera or a flash-bang grenade or a tear-gas canister. Not going to happen, Lieutenant.”

He takes out his iPhone, sends off a quick text message. He doesn’t think he’s going to have much more time in here and wants to make things clear to Pierce and Huang as this day proceeds.

“All right,” the lieutenant says. “Can we get you anything in the meantime, Agent Sanchez? Water? Juice? Something to eat?”

He takes another sniff. Damn, is it getting foul in here.

“I want two cops,” he says.

“What?”

“Two cops,” Sanchez says. “Dressed in nothing except their underwear. No shoes, no socks, nothing. They come in with hands out, and they slowly turn around and lower their shorts, so I know they’re not concealing anything. Got it?”

The Savannah lieutenant says, “Are you joking, Agent Sanchez? You can’t be serious.”

“Oh, serious indeed,” he says. “Those two cops come in, just as I say, and they take out the dead guy. That gives you a chance to fingerprint him, do an ID, find out why he tried to kill my boss. How does that sound?”