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...
“Good point,” she says. “Which is why you’re going to be in charge when I’m gone, Sanchez, so the investigation continues. You’re going to protect those three surviving Rangers. Make sure nothing happens to them until we hear something from the major. Got it?”
Sanchez finally nods, and Huang and Pierce both say, “Yes, ma’am.”
York nods, too. “Good. Now transfer your gear from that rental. I’ve got places to go, and sorry to say, I’m not driving the one with the dented hood. Based on our luck, the damn thing will pop off about halfway there.”
Twenty minutes later, York pulls over for a quick moment, reaches into her bag, comes out with her SIG Sauer. There’s a round in the chamber, of course, but she wants to make sure she has two spare clips nearby when she goes into the Waffle House.
If it is a trap, she’s going to be ready.
Chapter 71
Afghanistan
I’m in temporary quarters for the night, waiting for a convoy to leave Bagram at 5:00 a.m. tomorrow, heading south to Khost to meet up with Major Fredericka West. Earlier she said, “These are supposed to be secure phone lines, but we’re not taking any chances. I’ll set up transport for you. See you late tomorrow morning, Major. Safe travels. Stay low.”
The quarters are an old concrete-block building, subdivided into small plywood cubicles. I’ve had a dinner at the local DFAC, and a quick washup, and I’ve stretched out on a borrowed sleeping bag with a wool blanket over me.
A small lamp on a stand is next to the bed, and close by is my trusted Bruce Catton book, along with my Iridium satellite phone.
I grab the phone, power it up, dial the digits.
Ring, ring, ring.
No answer.
Ring, ring, ring.
Still no answer.
Where’s York? What’s she doing? How’s the rest of the crew?
And the investigation there in Sullivan?
I shut the Iridium down, restart it, and then dial the numbers once more.
Ring.
A crackle of static and I sit straight up, ignoring the bolt of pain that shoots right through my leg and into my skull.
“Major?” comes York’s voice. “Are you all right?”
Her voice is fading in and out, and I go right to the condensed version of what I’ve been doing.
“I’m fine,” I say. “I’m in Bagram, heading off to Pendahar tomorrow. Look, remember Major Frank Moore, the XO of Fourth Battalion? Got word from a Ranger officer here that he was murdered after visiting Staff Sergeant Jefferson. Bullet wound to the head, pulled out of the Savannah River.”
“Damn,” York says. “Major, things are also moving quickly over here. Witnesses have disappeared, the murder house was burned down, and it looks like Sheriff Williams is running the county as her own personal criminal enterprise.”
Now it’s my turn to swear. York goes on, her voice strong and in charge. “That’s not all. Staff Sergeant Jefferson’s cut a deal with the district attorney. He’s...”
Her voice fades out and there’s a hiss of static, and her voice comes back and says, “So there’s that.”
I raise my voice. “That’s what?”
Her voice cuts through. “He’s pleading guilty! In exchange for pleading guilty, the district attorney is cutting the other two Rangers loose!”
More static and she says, “Hold on, making a turn now.”
“A turn? Where are you?”
A nervous laugh. “On my way to a Waffle House for a very late breakfast! With a witness who says he was at the shooting! Sorry, Major, I think we’re gonna break this case stateside...”
I rub at my aching leg. “Who’s the witness?”
“Don’t know.”
“Is Sanchez with you?”
Her voice fades out again. “...alone.”
“York, don’t you dare go there without backup!” I yell. “I want Sanchez with you!”
There’s silence, not even a whisper of static.
I admire York, I trust York, and I’d love to see York in a bikini, but Sanchez has a more down-and-dirty outlook about humanity, having worked some very mean streets in LA when he was a cop. If York is off to meet somebody claiming to be a witness at a Waffle House, I want Sanchez sitting in a nearby booth, with a cut-down AR-15 across his lap.
“York!” I yell.
One more hiss of static, and her voice fading out. “...I’ll be okay, Major.”
Then the call is disconnected.
For the next half hour, I try again to call Connie, and none of the calls go through.
I finally stop when someone in the adjacent cubicle pounds the thin plywood and yells, “Hey, some of us trying to sleep over here! Knock that shit off!”
I turn the light off, stretch out, and I don’t go to sleep, not at all.
York seems to be right. The case is breaking open in Georgia, and here I am, alone and clueless, stuck in Afghanistan.
Chapter 72
Special Agent Connie York spots the familiar shape and logo of the Waffle House just off Route 204 leading into Savannah, and she has a tinge of anticipation, knowing that the airport she arrived at a few long days ago is just a quick drive away.
It’ll be wonderful, she thinks, to get this damn thing wrapped up, get back on a silver bird, and get the hell out of Georgia.
She parks beside the bright-yellow-and-red building with its black lettering and gets out of her car, thinking of an article she read once that said FEMA had a “Waffle House index” with which it determined how damaged a community was after a hurricane or tornado passed through it. The sooner the local Waffle House opens after a natural disaster, the quicker a local community would recover.
York opens the door and steps in, wondering what kind of index the CID could establish if she broke this case in the next several minutes at this particular Waffle House.
The interior is like every other Waffle House she’s been in, with bright lights, a counter, and booths with red cushions. There’s a good mix of customers here at midday, locals and workers, and in the last booth, sitting by himself, is a nervous-looking male who nods at her as she approaches.
He’s in his late twenties, light-brown hair buzzed short, with deep-blue eyes that are flickering around, like old memories are haunting him. He has on blue jeans and a soiled white T-shirt that is tight against his torso and bulky upper biceps.
York steps up to him and says, “Let’s change seats.”
“Huh?”
She takes her soft leather bag off her shoulder, gestures with her free hand. “Move around. I don’t know you, I don’t know where you’re from, all I know is that you told me you have knowledge about a mass killing that took place less than a week ago. Move it. I want my back against the wall.”
The guy gets up and does just that, and she thinks, Good. Score one for the team. Him moving shows he is malleable, weak, and she will use that to her advantage.
When he is settled, she sits down, content with knowing that from this last row of booths, she has a good view of the restaurant’s interior. A young blond waitress comes over and drops off the multicolored menus, and Connie barely gives the menu a glance as she looks closer at the man across from her, with his muscles and close-cropped hair.
Something comes to her.
A gamble, but what the hell.
“What unit were you in before being discharged?” York asks. “And how long have you been working for Sheriff Williams?”
Her questions seem to stun him, because he stares, nods, and says, “How do you know?”
“We know a lot more than you think,” York says. “Answer the question. Starting with your name.”