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...
Peggy says, “Politics. How else? It’s in her blood, it’s in her family. The Williams family has been prominent in this county for more than a hundred years, from Atlanta to—”
“Washington,” she says. “I was in her office a few days ago. I saw lots of photos up on the wall, her meeting with lots of politicians. But there was one black-and-white photo, some man in a suit, standing on the Capitol steps.”
Peggy nods. “Her great-uncle, Whitney Wilson Williams, United States senator. Served two glorious terms back in the 1950s. His great-niece Emma always wanted to go to Washington, but her one try for Congress six years ago finished with her in third place. Sheriff Williams doesn’t like losing, but she knows the facts. She can’t go to DC on her own.”
York says, “I saw her the other night at a campaign rally for... what’s his name again?”
“Conover,” she says. “Mason Conover. A dim bulb among our congressional delegation, which means he’ll go far when he’s elected senator next week. And rumor has it that Sheriff Williams is on tap to be his chief of staff once he moves to better quarters.”
“But her background here, I mean—”
Peggy says, “Damn it, Roscoe, how can you get heavier by just sitting here?” She picks up the cat and gently puts him on the floor. “Oh, who’s going to investigate her? Me? The Washington Post? Nope. She has a clear path to Washington, where she’s always wanted to be. Which will be nice for me and this county, not having her looking over us day after day, like some bloodthirsty medieval queen.”
York just stares at this older woman’s calm and nearly relaxed face.
Peggy says, “Why, she told me last year she planned to get to DC no matter how many bodies she had to step on along the way.”
Chapter 67
The honorable Emma Williams, sheriff of Sullivan County in the state of Georgia, strides through the crowded interior of Babe’s Breakfast in Tanner, a town in the western area of her county, smiling and nodding to its customers, either sitting at the counter or in booths, until she gets to the last booth in the row and sits down.
Across from her this early Wednesday morning is a surprised Cornelius Slate, district attorney, a full breakfast plate of scrambled eggs, toast, grits, and sausage links in front of him.
“Hey, Corny,” she says, knowing just how much he hates the nickname. “Fancy me finding you here.”
“Uh...”
A heavyset waitress in a stained pink uniform comes over, and before she can say anything, Williams holds up a hand. “Ah, just coffee. Black. And put it on Corny’s tab. I’m sure he won’t mind.”
The waitress shuffles away, and Williams takes off her campaign-style hat, puts it on the padded seat next to her, and says, “You know, Corny, I don’t know how anyone can start a day with something so filling and heavy. I put away a breakfast like that, I’d be snoozing for half a day.”
Slate doesn’t say anything, but his face is ashen, and Williams says, “But, if something is in front of me, I can’t stand the temptation. ’Scuse me.” Williams picks up a sausage link, takes a healthy bite. “Yum. Boy, this is something, isn’t it? Sure doesn’t taste like one of those tofu or turkey sausages. It’s the real deal.”
Slate says, “Er...”
She finishes the sausage link, picks up another one from Slate’s breakfast plate, and takes another pleasing bite. “Corny, just what in the hell are you up to?”
“My job, Sheriff. You know how it is.”
She shakes her head. “No, I don’t know how it is. What I do know is that you went behind my back last night and made some sort of criminal plea deal with that Sergeant Jefferson. Corny, why in hell did you do that without clearing it with me?”
The flush on his face deepens. “Ah, Sheriff, with all due respect, I am the senior law enforcement officer in this county. I really don’t have to, ah, clear anything with you.”
She eyes him coldly as she chews on the sausage link. Slate stays quiet. Williams reaches out and takes the last link off his plate. “Corny, with all due respect, do I really need to reaffirm the facts of life for you? Do I? Remind you of the times my boys drove you home from the American Legion or the Trackside Roadhouse when you had too much to drink? Or the time that your nephew Bobby Tim beat the crap out of his wife, a real embarrassing mess for you, and I took care of it? Or other times we helped out your office in finding last-minute evidence that let you prosecute cases that were dead-enders?”
Slate picks up a forkful of scrambled eggs, changes his mind, puts the fork back down on his plate. “Ah, that’s all in the past now, isn’t it? The truth is, I don’t have to clear anything with you now, Sheriff. What happened is the staff sergeant agreed to plead guilty at the hearing tomorrow. That gets that case out of here, saves time and money for the county. Everybody wins.”
Williams takes her time chewing the last of his sausage link. “Win? What kind of win is that? Those two other Rangers go free.”
“But you know there’s no forensic evidence linking them to the crimes. It all goes back to the staff sergeant. He’s taking the blame, and it’s still a win.”
She chews some more. “I don’t see it that way.”
“Well, I do, Sheriff.”
“You know what I see? I see you up for reelection next Tuesday, running against that Falconer fella, and you want to crush him. You had the votes, Corny, to win... but that wasn’t enough. You want to go into Tuesday’s election with this high-profile case behind you. The case of The Summer House murders. Impress the voters. Make it a landslide instead of a decent win. Make up for all your shortcomings.”
Slate lowers his eyes.
Williams says, “Hell, that’s not a bad strategy, Corny, but you should have cleared it with me first. You know it, and I know it. But you had to go rogue, go off the reservation, and I can’t — and won’t — stand for that. Pretty soon I’ll have to square accounts with you, and I warn you, it won’t be pretty.”
He lifts his eyes, looking defiant. “How’s that, Sheriff? Word we get is that when Mason gets elected to the Senate, he’s taking you along to Washington. Good for you — you’re heading out, going to your dream job and place of residence. That means those of us back here, we’re on our own. We need to look out for ourselves. That’s the truth.”
She picks up a napkin, wipes the grease off her fingers. The truth is the truth, and she has hitched her hopes and dreams to Representative Mason Conover, doing what it takes to get him elected to the Senate — even putting up with his whiny phone calls these past few days — but why admit it to this clown?
“Aw, hell, Corny, what makes you think that? Sure, I might be leaving Sullivan County if the congressman wants me to come along after he wins, but I intend to keep my organization in place, humming along, even with me gone. Deputy Lindsay, he’ll be taking my place. Just you wait and see.”
Slate’s eyes widen. “That boy Clark Lindsay? Are you kidding? He’s the one who shot and killed Mrs. Gendron’s dog.”
“The dog charged him.”
“The dog was blind!” Slate says.
“Still, it should have known better,” Williams says, tossing the used napkin on the district attorney’s plate. “Thing is, Corny, if everybody knew their place and stayed in their place, it’d be a better world.”
The waitress from earlier comes over, puts down a white mug of coffee. Williams picks up the coffee cup, gently blows across it.
“Ah,” she says, taking a sip. “Nice and black. Just like our souls, Corny.”
Chapter 68
Afghanistan
My not-so-great escape ends with me coming up against a smooth concrete wall, maybe a blast barrier or something separating this part of the compound from another set of buildings. I turn, and two male corporals in standard ACUs and carrying holstered pistols approach me, wearing patrol caps and very serious looks on their faces.