Джеймс Паттерсон - The Summer House

Sheriff Williams gathers up the photos. “Lillian Zachary. Thirty years old, resident of Atlanta and a Delta Air Lines employee.”

Connie says, “Relative of Gina Zachary?”

“Gina was her younger sister,” Williams says. “A Volvo parked in the yard was also registered to her.”

The dead people go back into a file folder.

Williams’s voice is somber. “Last homicide in this county…three, maybe four years ago? Millie Porter, she got tired of her boyfriend, Barry, tuning her up and so one night she cut him in half with a 12 gauge. That was a murder. These”—she taps the folder for emphasis—“were executions. And why? We don’t know why. But we’re sure it was done by your fellas.”

I say, “Mind sharing what you’ve got so far?”

“Oh, we’ve got a lot,” she says, “and our investigation is continuing, but the key part is a witness that places your Rangers at the murder scene, leaving in a pickup truck registered to Staff Sergeant Jefferson, right after there was gunfire.”

Connie says, “And what else?”

Sheriff Williams glances at her watch. “What else is that I’m missing my favorite nephew’s birthday party, and I think I’ve done enough for you folks tonight.”

My words don’t match what I’m feeling, but I say them anyway. “Sheriff Williams, you’ve been exceptionally kind and gracious. My deputy and I thank you.”

Williams gives me a slight smile. “Glad I can help the Army. Me? I’m just a small-town sheriff in a small rural county. This…this is a horror show. And I mean to see it right to the end.”

I gesture to the photos of her in military uniform. “The Reserves?”

She swivels and looks up at them as well. “Nope, Georgia National Guard. Ten proud years, in public affairs. Spent a lot of time deployed in Iraq.”

“Same for me,” I say. “I was a detective, second class, in New York, and in the Reserves, Criminal Investigation Division. Then this happened,” and I spin my cane back and forth.

“Sorry,” she says. “Mind me asking what happened?”

“Don’t mind at all,” I say. “After all, we’ve both been there, done that.” I take a breath, hoping the good sheriff notices. “I was in a small convoy, heading out to a village as part of an investigation. I was the lead investigator. My Humvee got hit by an IED…typical story. Driver killed, gunner lost a leg, and I had a few broken bones, and I was trapped for a while as my left leg got roasted and toasted.” I shrug. “Made it out alive, which is a plus. Came back home after a few months at Landstuhl in Germany and Walter Reed near DC, and then One Police Plaza wanted to put me behind a desk. Can’t really blame them—I suck now at running—but the Army offered me a full-time role. That’s why I’m here.”

She smiles, a bit more warmth this time. “Good on you, Major Cook. I like your style.”

I speak quickly. “One more thing, if I may, before you go to your birthday party. Any chance we can meet tomorrow morning for more of a debrief?”

“I don’t see why not,” she says. “Let’s say…8:00 a.m. Just before church. Hey, you folks want to know the times and places for services on Sunday?”

Connie speaks up. “Thank you very much, Sheriff, but the owner of our motel passed along a church list to me when I registered.”

I have a confident feeling that Connie is lying and say, “All right, ma’am, 8:00 a.m.”

“See you back here.”

And I toss in, “And perhaps you’ll change your mind and allow us to visit the murder house?”

Her slight smile widens. “See you tomorrow, Major. At 8:00 a.m.”

The shock from going out of cool air-conditioning into the hot, muggy outside air nearly takes my breath away, but Connie and I keep pace as we get back to the silver Ford Fusion.

“What a mess,” she says.

“Biggest one I’ve ever seen,” I say.

“What now, boss?”

“You show me the grand lodgings you’ve secured, and we wait for the rest of our team to arrive.”

I’m standing by the passenger door, and Connie is standing opposite me. She eyes me and says, “Sir?”

She wants to talk, so I say, “Anything odd strike you about the good sheriff back there?”

She taps the roof of the rental. “Where should I begin?”

“Number one on the runway,” I say. “Go.”

Connie looks back at the municipal building. “She didn’t ask for our IDs.”

I nod, pleased. “That’s right,” I say. “Tell me more.”

Connie says with confidence, “This is the biggest case she’s ever had. Seven dead civilians, four elite Army Rangers charged, in her jurisdiction. And a man and woman appear, claiming to be Army investigators, and she doesn’t ask for our identification?”

I say, “She knew we were coming, and she knew who we were. Good job, York.”

“And there were a lot of look-at-me photos with prominent politicians,” she adds. “But there was one photo that didn’t fit. Did you see it?”

“The grumpy-looking old man standing on the steps of the Capitol?”

“That’s the one,” she says. “Wonder who he is and why his photo is in her office.”

“Then find out,” I say.

“I will,” Connie says. “However you look at it, though, all those photos mean the sheriff is a player of some sort.”

“That’s right,” I say, opening the car door. “Small-town sheriff my ass.”

Chapter 8

CAPTAIN ALLEN PIERCE of the US Army JAG Corps opens the door to his room at the Route 119 Motel and Coffee Shop in Sullivan, Georgia, flips on the light, and takes in his temporary home. Two sagging single beds separated by a nightstand with a light. A low bureau against the right-hand wall, a television chained to the floor. The carpet stained and scarred with cigarette burns. An open bathroom with a small shower.

Several hours ago he was playing the fifteenth hole at the Nassau Country Club, on the outskirts of Glen Cove, odd man out in a foursome with Pop and two of his friends, all three Wall Street lawyers, all members of the Urban League, all summering at Oak Bluffs on Martha’s Vineyard.

Pop was trying to grease the skids to ease the way forward for his lawyer son if he ever leaves the Army, and the incoming text from Major Cook meant Pierce didn’t have to say no again to his father.

Pierce decides to take the far bed, thinking it’ll be farther away from any noise in the parking lot, and dumps his go bag, then uses the bathroom to freshen up. He feels disoriented, like he did in the first few weeks after graduating from Columbia Law and going straight to Fort Benning, taking the direct-commission route from civilian to second lieutenant.

While at Fort Benning for his six weeks of initial training, he was in a huge complex, under constant supervision and in the company of other soldiers and trainees. Today? He drove here from the airport by himself, along the twilit back roads of Georgia, and for thirty minutes he was followed by a car that slowed when he slowed, accelerated when he accelerated.

Paranoia, he thinks, but he also thinks of his great-uncle Byron, who had his skull fractured during the Freedom Rides back in the early sixties.

Pierce walks outside and tenses up as a car drives right up to his motel unit, lights bright, and there’s his service pistol back in his luggage—which he’s fired a total of three times, on the range—but the engine and lights switch off, and Major Jeremiah Cook’s voice cuts through the Georgia darkness.

“Good to see you, Captain,” he says. “Let’s get to work.”

After retrieving his legal pad and laptop, Pierce follows Major Cook and Special Agent Connie York past two other rooms in this motel, which is L-shaped, with an office at the junction of the L and a coffee shop at the far end. Connie unlocks the door of the next room—marked 11 in stick-on numbers—and leads them in, switching on the lights. “It’s a hole, but it’s workable,” she says. “Allen, give me a hand, will you?”