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 clasps his hands in front of him on the clean table. “Dwight Dix. Before I became a deputy in Sullivan County, I was in the Tenth Mountain Division, out of Fort Drum. Did part of a tour overseas in Afghanistan before...”
Dix seems ashamed, and York won’t push it, not now. “Something happened, you were discharged, at loose ends... and Sheriff Emma Williams offered you a job. Right?”
A quick nod. “That’s right.”
She takes out a white legal pad and pen, sets them before her.
“Very well, then, Dwight. You told me you had information about those killings. I believe you. You gave me details only someone who was there or intimately involved would know. What happened?”
Dix shakes his head. “Nope, we’re not gonna do it this way.”
York feels tense, part of her wanting to grab this fool by his T-shirt neck and slam his thick head onto the table. You had something to do with a two-year-old girl being killed!
She takes a breath. “What way is that, Dwight?”
He taps her legal pad. “I want you to write something legal for me. About immunity. About me telling you what happened that night at The Summer House and who did the shooting, and why. I get that piece of paper promising not to prosecute, and then I’ll talk.”
York keeps her voice even. “You like watching those Law & Order marathons on TV, is that it?”
“Huh?”
She says, “Dwight, I’m a law enforcement officer with the US Army. I don’t have any pull with county or state law enforcement, and not much with federal law enforcement.”
His face falls, and she adds, “I mean, I could write something up like that, but it wouldn’t be legal, it would be a lie, and that’s not how I operate. Understand?”
“But I need something...”
York uncaps her pen. “This is the best I can do, Dwight,” York says. “I’ll write out a statement and sign it with my name, rank, and service number, and—”
“How about your badge number?” he interrupts.
“CID agents don’t have badge numbers,” she says. “I’ll make a statement saying that in my professional opinion you have expressed remorse and have offered invaluable investigative assistance, and that in any future dealings with state or federal law enforcement, I will be willing to speak up on your behalf to protect your legal interests.”
As she narrates this to Dwight, she writes down the words, and she signs them with a flourish. After tearing off the sheet, she passes it over to Dwight, keeping her face calm and impassive, because that piece of paper is total and utter legal bullshit.
But he bites.
He folds it up and puts it in his pocket. “Okay, what do you want to know?”
“Were you there the night of the killings?”
“Yes,” he says.
“Who ordered them to take place?”
“Deputy Clark Lindsay, but I’m sure Sheriff Emma was behind it. Hell, nobody in the sheriff’s department can take a crap without her say-so.”
“Who was there?”
“Me, Clark, and Teddy Collins.”
“Why did you do it?”
He shrugs. “We did our jobs. We were told that in this house was a bunch of low-life drug dealers that had skated over and over again on various charges. We were told to clear the place out. Clark said not to worry, these guys had competitors — it’d eventually be pinned on some rival drug gang.”
York again thinks of two-year-old Polly Zachary. “Did you shoot that little girl?”
“Shit no!” he says, raising his voice, causing some customers in the nearby booths to turn their heads and look at him. “There were two guys sitting on a couch. I took them out. Clark and Teddy... they took care of the rest, the girl downstairs and the folks upstairs.”
“But the Rangers were arrested two nights later,” she says. “You’re telling me they weren’t involved?”
Another shake of the head. “Nope.”
“But there was evidence from the scene. Fingerprints, shell casings.”
Dwight says, “I heard later from Clark that the Rangers were there about an hour or so ’fore we got there. That’ll take care of the fingerprints, I guess. And Clark... he’s got another job working as a civilian attendant at the shooting range at Hunter. I bet he could get some empty shell casings from a certain Ranger’s pistol if he had to.”
York is writing so hard and fast that she is sure the pen is close to shredding the paper. She has a memory of once working on a computer jigsaw puzzle, with none of the 128 pieces fitting, until she used the Help feature of the program and reduced the number of puzzle pieces to 24. Then the puzzle was solved within seconds.
This deputy, this disgraced soldier, this killer sitting so calmly across from her, he is her own Help feature.
Damn, won’t the major be happy when she calls him later.
“But here’s the big question, Dwight,” she says. “Why? What was the real reason to frame the Rangers for those killings? What was it?”
He seems to be wrestling with something, and she says, “Dwight, what I signed there, I’m behind it one hundred percent. I won’t let you be by yourself. I promise.”
The man squeezes his hands together. “It had something to do with Afghanistan, when they was there.”
Afghanistan, she thinks, just like Major Cook thought.
“Dwight,” she says, “tell me.”
In the parking lot of the Waffle House, Bo Leighton carefully parks the stolen Honda Accord that he and his cousin Ricky lifted a few minutes ago after they had tailed the guy earlier from Sullivan. Lesson he learned a long time ago is that if you need wheels, get something dull-looking and ordinary that doesn’t stand out, and then use it quick, ’fore the owner makes the call and the stolen car is sent out over the wires.
He and Ricky are both wearing black wrestling sneakers, loose khaki pants, and short black hoodies. Each has a ski mask on his head, ready to be pulled down in the next thirty seconds when they start dancing.
Bo switches off the engine, leaving the keys in the ignition. He says, “You ready?”
His cousin says, “Damn it, now that I’m here, I’m kinda hungry. Why can’t we get something to eat and then do the job?”
Bo feels the usual frustration bubble to the surface. His cousin has dead-aim with a gun and is quick with his fists and boots, but most times he fails to see the larger picture. Like the time when he was first picked up on an adult charge that got reduced, and he was on work release, with two weeks left on his sentence, and he left a county lawn-mowing job to get a beer at a nearby tavern. In doing so, he got an extra twelve months tacked on for attempted escape. And why? I was thirsty for a beer, he said.
Bo swivels in his seat and picks up a black gym bag, unzips it, and hands over a Desert Eagle .45 semiautomatic pistol. “Because we were told by Sheriff Emma that the job has to be done now, as soon as possible.”
“Funny thing, what we’re about to do to that deputy, ’cause of his boss.” Ricky works the action of the Desert Eagle, sits up, and slides it into his waistband.
Bo does the same with his. “Don’t worry, he’ll get a nice cop funeral. Make his family so proud.”
Before Bo opens the door, Ricky says, “What happens if some other cop or do-gooder gets in the way?”
Bo says, “Kill ’em all.”
Chapter 73
The deputy before York is about to speak when two men burst through the door at the far end, wearing ski masks over their heads and brandishing pistols. One yells out, “Nobody moves! This is a goddamn robbery!”
York instantly thinks, No, no, it isn’t — she doesn’t believe in coincidences — and lowers her right hand to her open bag to grab her SIG Sauer. She says, “Stay put, Dwight, stay put.”