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...
“The story’s now made all the papers, from the Atlanta Journal-Constitution and the Savannah Morning News to the local Sullivan County Times, but no television coverage yet, though that will change,” she says. “The initial reporting just has four Army personnel in custody, with no mention of their Ranger affiliation or the number of civilians murdered. But once the news gets out about who they are, who they killed, the headlines and coverage will go berserk.”
A low bank of thunderclouds is off to the south. I see two flashes of lightning illuminate the gray-black of the clouds. Connie’s thick blond hair, trimmed short, seems to be wilting after a day in the humid Georgia air.
“Where are the Rangers now?”
“They’re being held in the town of Ralston, just south of Sullivan. The county sheriff arrested them late last night, at a roadhouse in that town, and took the four of them to the nearest jail.”
“And the shootings took place Wednesday evening?”
“That’s right,” she says. “The local paper says a visitor came to the house Thursday morning, found it full of dead civilians.”
“And less than forty-eight hours later they’ve made arrests for multiple homicides.”
“Tells you the sheriff’s department there is either very good, very lax, or very lucky. Or a combination thereof.”
“What else?” I ask.
She says, “It’s a typical small Southern town, boss. I showed the clerk my ID when I registered the group at the motel, and I’m sure everyone around here will know tonight that the Army’s coming in.”
“And when do we expect the rest of our crew?”
Connie looks at a watch encircling her tanned wrist with a thin gold band. I think I can make out delicate blond hairs there. “Captain Pierce will be here in about an hour. Dr. Huang and Agent Sanchez... they’re both coming in from the West Coast, Huang from San Francisco, Sanchez from LA. Barring any flight delays, they should be in Savannah around midnight.”
“All right,” I say.
“You need me to pick any of them up?”
“No, we’re going to need at least three sets of wheels for our work. I’m sure you told them where we’re staying. What do you know about the county sheriff?”
“Emma Williams,” she says. “Has been sheriff for a number of years. It’s an elected position in Sullivan County, and most of the county is rural. Which means she and her deputies do the bulk of the law enforcement.”
I take out my iPhone, work a few buttons and tabs, pull up a map, and say, “The Rangers live either at or near Hunter Army Airfield, south of Savannah. And they’re arrested at a roadhouse nearly an hour’s drive away. What, they don’t have good drinking establishments near their post?”
“It’s a puzzle,” she says, and maneuvers us onto an exit ramp, and now we’re on Interstate 16, heading west. The land is still flat and mostly covered with trees. Not too long to get rural from the grandly named international airport.
“Along with why they traveled to Sullivan to shoot up a houseful of civilians. Must be one hell of a motive.”
“Or accident,” she says. “Maybe they planned to hit a certain house and hit the wrong one.”
“They’re Rangers,” I say. “They plan in their sleep. They don’t hit the wrong house.”
A few seconds pass and I feel an urge to ask her about the date I interrupted earlier with my phone call, but I decide to drop it. Connie’s gone twice to the marital altar with fellow Army personnel and then to divorce court, and I get the feeling she’s not interested in any particular male at the moment, including me.
I still have the iPhone in my hand, and after doing a bit of heavy and complicated research with the Great God Google, I find the number I’m looking for and dial it, then activate the speakerphone so Connie can listen in.
The phone rings once and is then picked up. “Sullivan County Dispatch. What’s the nature of your emergency?”
A crisp, professional-sounding woman. I put the iPhone closer to my mouth and say, “This is Major Jeremiah Cook, US Army CID from Quantico, calling for Sheriff Williams.”
The woman dispatcher says, “Please hold for a moment, Major Cook,” and we’re placed on a silent hold. No music, no sound of static, no chirpy voice thanking the caller for choosing Sullivan County for their law enforcement needs.
The dispatcher comes back on. “Major Cook? I have Sheriff Williams on the line.”
A stronger, older woman’s voice comes on and says, “Major? This is Sullivan County sheriff Williams. What can I do for you?”
I say, “Sheriff Williams, I’m from the US Army Criminal Investigation Division, out of Quantico. I’ve been tasked to lead the Army’s inquiry into what occurred with these four Rangers.”
“Well, you realize this crime took place in my county, on civilian property, correct?”
“Absolutely, Sheriff Williams,” I say, “and I have no intention or desire to interfere with your investigation.”
“Why am I talking to you and not someone from the MP unit over at Hunter?”
Connie looks my way, and it’s not a hard look or skeptical. I think she’s just paying attention, and I say, “Sheriff Williams, a matter of this magnitude, involving four Ranger servicemen and seven dead civilians, has gotten the attention of very senior Army personnel.”
She says, “Well, that makes sense, I suppose. Where are you now?”
“On Interstate 16, heading to the city of Sullivan.”
She chuckles. “Don’t call the damn place a city. It’ll just get the Chamber of Commerce all hopeful. Nope, we’re a town, and a small one at that. Tell you what, how does thirty minutes sound? At my office in Sullivan?”
Now I look at Connie and she looks back at me, smiles, shrugs her shoulders. To the sheriff I say, “Ma’am, that’s incredibly considerate and generous of you, meeting with us late on a Saturday.”
“Not a problem, not at all,” she says.
She hangs up and I disconnect the call, and Connie says, “Well, that’s a nice change of pace. Civilian law enforcement offering instant cooperation.”
I put the phone in my lap. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, Connie. She agreed to meet with us. That doesn’t equal cooperation.”
Out by the horizon, lightning flashes, again and again.
Chapter 6
Special agent Connie York pulls the rented Ford sedan into an empty parking spot next to a Chevrolet sedan painted in the brown and white colors of the Sullivan County Sheriff’s Department. Once they left the interstate and got onto a narrow state road, sporadically lined with pig or dairy farms, mobile homes, and one-story houses, a phrase from a Talking Heads song came to her: And you may find yourself / Living in a shotgun shack. The only bits of color were the campaign signs for races, from US Senate to county coroner.
She switches off the engine and looks across the lot to a small brick building containing three bays for the trucks belonging to the Sullivan Volunteer Fire Department. Two more buildings complete the cluster. A two-story, white-pillared brick one is topped with a pitched shingle roof and a clock tower, and wide concrete steps lead up to its double glass doors. Behind the taller building is a wide, freestanding, brick-and-concrete one-story surrounded by a high fence with razor wire curled along the top. Signs announce that these adjoining structures hold everything governmental for Sullivan County: the courthouse, the sheriff’s department, and the jail. But there are no ramps.