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...
He ignores them all, sees a pile of receipts, invoices, and other paperwork. All in English, thank you very much, and he starts flipping through the yellow and pink invoices, the other bills from snack suppliers and soft drink distributors, and, yes, yes, right there.
Buried deep in the pile, another envelope with the return address of SULLIVAN DISTRICT ATTORNEY.
The clerk says something in Hindi or whatever, and Sanchez gives him a look, sees the cheery smile and happy face are gone, and there’s the look of one hard man who would probably take him on if there weren’t other people in the store.
He pulls out the sheet of paper within the envelope, gives it a quick glance. The language is almost identical to what he read back in Wendy Gabriel’s house of trash and smells. VIHAN LAGHARI, DBA ROUTE 119 GAS N’ GO, of Sullivan, in and of Sullivan County, is charged with numerous violations of Georgia Code 3-3-23: Furnishing to, purchase of, or possession by persons under 21 years of age of alcoholic beverages; use of false identification; proper identification; dispensing, serving, selling, or handling by persons under 21 years of age in the course of employment; seller’s actions upon receiving false identification; said complaint brought to the District Attorney’s Office by...
Sanchez takes the envelope from his coat pocket that he lifted from the top of Wendy Gabriel’s bureau, pulls out that sheet of paper, turns and holds them both up so Pierce, Huang, and especially York can see them.
“See this?” he says, thrusting out his left hand. “Criminal complaint filed against Wendy Gabriel from the district attorney. Charging her with cruelty to animals.”
And he puts out his right hand. “And this? Criminal complaint filed against this store and its owner, for selling alcohol to minors. Maybe Pierce can tell us later the punishments, but I bet the animal cruelty one would mean the woman’s dog being seized, and here, the store’s liquor license being pulled, which is just as good as shutting it down.”
Sanchez folds up both sheets of paper, returns them to their respective envelopes.
He says, “Agent York, both complaints were brought forth by Sheriff Emma Williams. Get it? And if she’s put you at risk for losing what’s precious to you, what would you do to prevent that?”
Huang says, “Good God. You’d do anything, anything at all.”
Sanchez nods, feeling great, feeling on top of the world.
“Like cooperating in putting out false evidence,” he says.
Chapter 53
Special Agent Connie York is pushing the damaged Ford rental up Route 119 as fast as she can, with the dented and scraped front hood shaking and vibrating like it’s seconds away from tearing off. She feels like she’s in a race for her life, for justice, for everything, and some damnable folks are up ahead, pulling the finish line away from her.
Next to her, Pierce, the squad’s JAG attorney, gets off his smartphone and says, “No joy, Connie. District Attorney Slate is in meetings all day, can’t be disturbed.”
“Big surprise,” she says, looking up in the rearview mirror, seeing the other two rentals in a train right behind her, Sanchez hanging close again with Huang not far behind. “All right, get on the phone with Briggs, the funeral home director. And put him on speaker.”
She checks the time as Pierce starts making the call. At this point Major Cook is still hours short of arriving in Germany for a refueling stop and, even with the satellite phone, is probably out of reach.
No matter.
She’s seeing this one through.
“All right, sir. Hold on, please. I’m going to put you on speakerphone,” Pierce says. A flick of the finger on the screen and a voice booms out, “This is Ferguson Briggs.”
“Mr. Briggs, thank you,” Connie says, keeping her eye on the narrow state road. “A quick question, if I may. This morning you said something to the effect that you received directions to cremate the remains of Stuart Pike, the man who had been renting that home.”
Briggs says nothing for a moment, and then, cautiously, he says, “Yes, that’s true. I did receive instructions to do that.”
“From his family?”
“No,” he says.
“Who, then?”
Another pause and she glances at Pierce, who glances right back at her with a look of expectation upon his face. Briggs clears his throat. “Why, Sheriff Williams contacted me and told me to go ahead with the cremation. She told me that a family member had contacted her.”
“You just went ahead and did it, then,” Connie asks.
“Why not?”
Connie makes a chopping motion with her right hand, and Pierce disconnects the phone call. Up ahead is the now familiar dirt road off to the right, leading to The Summer House.
She makes the turn, speeding right by the old sign, the other Fords following behind her, and then she sees a haze, some parked vehicles with flashing lights, and when the smell of something burning comes to her, she knows once again she’s too late.
York slows down and approaches the house as Pierce says, “Oh, shit, look at that.”
On the scene are two brown-and-white cruisers from the Sullivan County Sheriff’s Department and two fire engines from the town’s volunteer fire department. About a half dozen firefighters wearing bright-yellow turnout gear and helmets are wetting down what’s left of the house, which is a smoldering, smoking pile of collapsed wood, shingles, and broken windows.
She parks the rental behind the nearest cruiser and steps out, the smell of smoke thick and disappointing. Even with Pierce next to her, and quickly followed by Huang and Sanchez, never has she felt so utterly alone. Even doing traffic stops along the highways of Virginia, back in her state trooper days, she was never entirely by herself if something went south. If she got into something desperate or dangerous back then, help was one quick radio broadcast away.
Not here.
This entire place is against her and the CID team.
Two men and a woman dressed in the brown and tan of the Sullivan County Sheriff’s Department are talking to an older man who has ASST. CHIEF lettered on the back of his coat, and then the woman — Sheriff Williams, of course — breaks away and comes over, a very happy and satisfied smile on her face.
Even with the thick Georgia heat, York is taken aback by the confidence in that woman’s smile.
She’s getting away with it, whatever the hell it is, and she’s not showing any fear or concern.
“Morning, folks,” she says, stepping closer. “Hell of a thing, isn’t it? A nice old historical home like this burning down. A real pity.”
York shakes her head. “Arson?”
A shrug. “Could be. We’ll have to wait for the fire inspectors to figure it out. Might take a month or two.”
One by one, the other members of her squad line up next to her, tired, beat down, and now seeing another piece of evidence literally go up in smoke.
“How convenient,” York says.
Sanchez says, “Yeah, damn convenient.”
Something seems to crackle in the air. The sheriff steps in closer, and her two deputies do the same. Williams’s face seems to change, from the open cheeriness of earlier to something hard and dark, and then she changes again.
Smiles.
She reaches out, touches the damaged hood of the Ford. “Wow, will you look at this. Recent collision damage. Looks like you hit something hard.”
York keeps quiet. A piece of the shattered roof of the house collapses, causing a flare-up and another billow of smoke. The sheriff says, “You know, funny thing, the other night Randy Poplar, he runs a private shooting club over on the north side of town, he reported that somebody ran into his pipe gate. Dented it all to hell.”