The Summer House
- Автор: Паттерсон Джеймс, Дюбуа Брендан
- Год: 2020
- Язык: английский
- Год: Little, Brown and Company
- ISBN: 978-0-316-53955-5
- Жанр: Триллеры
Электронная книга - «The Summer House». Краткое содержание книги:
To ensure that justice is done, the Army sends Major Jeremiah Cook, a veteran and former NYPD cop, to investigate. But the major and his elite team arrive in sweltering Georgia with no idea their grim jobs will be made exponentially more challenging by local law enforcement, who resists the Army’s intrusion and stonewall them at every turn.
As Cook and his squad struggle to uncover the truth behind the condemning evidence, the pieces just won’t fit — and forces are rallying to make certain damning secrets die alongside the victims in the murder house. With his own people in the cross-hairs, Cook takes a desperate gamble to find answers — even if it means returning to a hell of his own worst nightmares...
Sanchez says, “Connie, I—”
“It’s Agent York, if you please,” she says. “What is it? We don’t have time to dick around.”
He feels his jaw tense. “Nothing, ma’am, it can wait.”
“Good,” she says, “let’s see what we can get from Mr. Briggs. Pierce, you got some legal mumbo-jumbo that will allow us to grab Stuart Pike’s body?”
“I think so,” he says, rubbing at the stubble on his chin. None of the men had time to shave this morning, and Sanchez is still steaming over York’s put-down.
“All right, let’s do this. Huang, you can stick behind if you want.”
He manages a smile. “Strength in numbers, ma’am. Maybe we’ll scare him straight or something.”
“Maybe,” she says.
With each passing second, each passing minute, York is aware that Major Cook is farther out there over the Atlantic Ocean, heading into a combat zone, while she’s taken command in a little combat zone of her own. Not only does she have to deal with an angry Army MP colonel who wants to see the three surviving Rangers have a date with an executioner’s needle; she also has somebody who’s bugged their rooms and one CID investigator who’s being a royal pain in the ass.
After brushing past the younger Mr. Briggs, she and the others are in the director’s office. Ferguson Briggs looks the same as he did the other day, save the knee-length white smock he previously wore over his black suit, and his dark-brown basset-hound eyes look surprised at seeing his office crowded with four Army personnel. York is sitting in one leather-upholstered chair, Sanchez is sitting next to her, and Pierce and Huang are against the near wall. Hidden speakers air soft classical music.
The place is carpeted, somber, with unread leather-bound books in a bookcase. One wall holds a display of casket styles, complete with finishes and handles, and various framed certificates hang opposite. Briggs’s desk is neat and orderly, with file folders and a thick black binder Connie thinks must contain the pricing options he shows the grieving. About the only object out of place is a plain brown cardboard box, tied together with string.
And speaking of grieving families, Briggs gets right to the point.
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but you’ve come at a very bad time,” he says. “I have the Parnell family arriving in a few minutes. You need to be out of my office by then. You see, their poor son died last night, in their garage.”
“Suicide?” Connie asks.
“In a manner of speaking,” he says. “The young lad died of an overdose, like so many others in this county. One of the hardest parts will be writing the obituary. We often say ‘died suddenly at home,’ but most folks know what that means nowadays. Now, again, tell me why you’re here?”
“The bodies of the victims,” she says. “We’d like to examine them again.”
And grab one on our way out, she thinks, until we can figure out what to do next.
“I’m sorry, but all save one have been turned over to their respective families.”
Sanchez butts in. “For real? Why so soon?”
Briggs still looks mournful. “Why not? With regard to the bodies, the county sheriff has told us her investigation is complete. She authorized me to release the remains. The last family left about thirty minutes ago, the Gleason boy.”
Connie says, “Hold on. You said ‘all save one.’ Who’s left?”
“The poor gent who had his arms broken,” Briggs says. “Arrangements for his remains are still up in the air.”
“That’s good,” Connie says, “because our investigation isn’t complete, and we’d like to view him again.”
No need to mention taking Pike. She trusts Pierce, the JAG lawyer, has a strategy to use when the right time comes.
“All right, I suppose you can do that, for all the good it will do you.”
A little shiver of cold caresses the back of Connie’s neck. “I’m sorry, what do you mean by that?”
Briggs points to the cardboard box. “I received directions to cremate his remains, and there they are, waiting to be shipped to Savannah.”
The room falls silent. Connie thinks she hears the quick intake of breath from Pierce and Huang.
Briggs says, “Is there anything else I can do for the Army?”
Chapter 52
Speeding into the parking lot of Route 119 Gas N’ Go, Special Agent Connie York nearly runs into a motorcyclist pulling out from the pumps — a woman with a helmet and leathers flipping her the bird as she roars out onto the state road — and Connie thinks, Sure. Why not? One more piece of bad luck to maintain the tone of her day.
She pulls into an empty space, and the second Ford, driven by Sanchez, who was determined to tailgate her all the way over here, pulls in next to her. Then Huang parks, in the third rental car. Beside her in the car, Pierce says, “Don’t let Manuel get you down.”
“I won’t,” she says, taking the keys out of the ignition. “But when I get a chance, either later this week or during our respective disciplinary hearings, I plan to ring his bell.”
“You do that, you’ll get free representation from me.”
York gets out, Sanchez and Huang exit their cars, and they all go into the convenience store, thankfully empty of customers. Behind the counter is an older Indian man, with a thick moustache and bright eyes and a big smile, wearing gray slacks and a pink polo shirt with the store logo. He says, “Good day, ma’am,” as York goes up to the counter.
“Good day to you,” she says. “Where’s Mr. Laghari?”
He looks at each of them. “Good day to all of you.”
York says, “Yes, thanks for your courtesy. Where is Mr. Laghari?”
A nod. “Help you?”
“Vihan Laghari, where is he?”
The man keeps smiling. “Can I help?” he says.
Sanchez says, “Looks like we’ve got a language problem here, boss.”
She swears to herself and then sees a photo of the owner in a frame nearby, along with a woman and his two children.
“Here,” she says, picking up the photo, holding it in front of the man. “Where are they?”
She motions to the rear of the store, and then outside, and the man vigorously nods. “Ah, Vihan, he’s gone.”
“Gone where?”
“Gone home,” the man says, still smiling. “To Mumbai.”
Huang says, “The store owner leaves with his family, and there’s one guy left behind. Doesn’t sound good, boss.”
Then Sanchez moves in next to her, flashes his leather wallet with his CID badge, and says, “Police. Got that? Police?”
The man isn’t smiling anymore, and York says, “Sanchez, what the hell are you doing?”
“My job,” he shoots back. “You should try it sometime.”
Not fair, but Sanchez thinks of the times back in the LAPD when he came up against people like this clerk who smiled a lot and pretended to know just a few words of English. More than two hundred languages are spoken in his home state of California, and in investigating cases, Sanchez has run into everything from Albanian to Urdu and has no patience to wait for an interpreter.
He goes around the counter, still holding his badge out like he’s facing a vampire with a cross, and the guy shuffles back, lifts up his hands, and York says, “Knock it off, Sanchez. Get your ass back over here.”
Pierce says, “Whatever you’re doing, Sanchez, it’s illegal and it won’t be admissible in any court,” and crap, even Huang jumps in and says, “If your intent is scaring a guy who can’t speak English well, congratulations, you’re doing a great job.”