The Summer House Read online

  This gets everyone’s attention. I say, “You all right?”

  He shrugs. “I’ve experienced nastier work in the Rampart Division. It’s okay.”

  I make it a point to give everyone a quick look so I know they’re paying attention. “All right, folks, stay alert out there, and make sure all of you have your tac vests handy. And, Pierce and Huang, I know lawyers and psychiatrists don’t always walk around armed, but make sure you carry your service weapons. Lieutenant Huang?”

  My psychiatrist says, “This morning Captain Pierce and I tried to gain access to the Ralston town jail. The attendant wouldn’t let us in. I stayed behind while Captain Pierce went to visit the district attorney. At about 1715 hours I got into the jail and interviewed the four Rangers.”

  Pierce looks impressed. “Doc, when I left, you were taking it easy in the park across the street. How the hell did you get in?”

  Dr. Huang seems pleased with himself. “Trade secret. Anyway, I got in, and I interviewed two of the Rangers—Corporal Barnes and Specialist Ruiz—and they stuck to a script. Mostly name and rank, and that Staff Sergeant Jefferson is the best leader they’ve ever served under.”

  Sanchez nods. “Hanging together. Big surprise.”

  Huang says, “But I started off with the youngest squad member, Specialist Vinny Tyler. The other two were calm and collected. Tyler…he was defiant. But he wanted to talk, especially about the difference between frontline troops like him and rear-echelon soldiers like us. But before he left…there was guilt there. Serious guilt. I plan to go back tomorrow, see if I can take that further.”

  I ask, “And Staff Sergeant Jefferson?”

  Huang pauses, then says, “He was the surprise. I didn’t expect him to talk to me, but he did…and he wasn’t happy I was there. Threatened to hurt me if I came back and talked to the Rangers again. But he let something slip in our talk, when he was getting angry with me. Major, he practically admitted he and his Rangers were there that night.”

  We all get quiet. Someone’s pounding at the door, claiming to be from the New York Times. Or the Washington Post. I’m not sure and I don’t care.

  “Go on,” I say.

  “I told him that we were here to find out the truth, especially if it might be able to help him and his men,” Huang carefully says. “And he threw that right back in my face. Said something to the effect that the families of those who resided in that old historical house wouldn’t forget what happened that night.”

  Silence in our little room.

  Huang shakes his head. “Major, they’ve been there. They know what the location looks like. Sir, based on what we’ve learned so far, the matched empty shell casings and the fingerprints, I think they were at that house and slaughtered those civilians.”

  That hangs in the air for a moment, and then my cell phone rings. ANONYMOUS CALLER, the screen states.

  “Cook,” I answer.

  The man’s voice is low and to the point. “Your goddamn killers butchered our neighbors. You think you’re going to help ’em get away with it, you’re wrong. Pack up and go back to DC, assholes.”

  I say, “We’re actually from Quantico.”

  By then the man has hung up.

  Chapter 26

  I BRUSH OFF the phone call—I heard much worse said to my face working Midtown South—but my doctor’s considered statements have made my stomach do a slow flip.

  “It seems the locals love us,” I say. “Is there anything else, Doc?”

  “No, sir,” he says. “I’ll report back tomorrow after I try to interview Specialist Tyler again.”

  More pounding on the door. This time it’s CNN. Then they go away and it’s quiet again.

  “Captain Pierce,” I say, “did you meet with the district attorney?”

  “Affirmative, sir,” he says. “Cornelius Slate. Runs the county’s business out of his office. Looks like the stereotypical small-town lawyer, but he’s got serious legal chops. Graduated from George Mason and was a high-priced corporate lawyer for years before retiring to Sullivan. Bad news for the Rangers is that justice moves slowly in this county. It might be weeks or even months before an indictment is prepared, and in the meantime, he’s told me that he’s gung-ho to put all four of them on death row.”

  “Anything else?”

  Pierce frowns. “He didn’t come out and say it, but I have a sense he might be the local chapter head of the Sons of the Confederacy. And that’s all I got for now.”

  “Good to know,” I say. “Agent Sanchez? You’re up.”

  Sanchez leans forward in his chair, clasps his hands together. “Sheriff Williams said there was a female witness out walking her dog who saw a pickup truck depart the crime scene the night of the murders. I tracked her down. Wendy Gabriel. She confirms what the sheriff said, recalls seeing a truck after hearing some gunshots, and spotted two men in the cab when they stopped under a utility light.” He waits, then says, “But she’s lying.”

  A second ago Huang was doodling on his pad, Connie was rearranging her bag, and Pierce was tearing apart a doughnut and eating it.

  Now they are all staring at Sanchez.

  “How?” I ask.

  “I went to the road where she says she was walking her dog and saw the truck stop and then depart. I parked my rental underneath the utility light, near the driveway that goes to The Summer House. It’s barely working. I folded my jacket, draped it over the seat of the car. Major, I couldn’t see the buttons on my jacket. How could she see two men and later ID them in a photo lineup?”

  Connie says, “Maybe their interior light was on.”

  Sanchez sits up, shoots back, “After committing multiple homicides? You think so, Connie? You learn that chasing down speeders outside the Beltway?”

  Connie starts talking—I know Sanchez doesn’t have much respect for her previous service in the Virginia State Police—and Pierce and Huang try to interrupt.

  Sanchez raises his voice. “But that’s not all!”

  I hold up a hand. “Cool it, folks. Sanchez, what else is there?”

  Sanchez’s voice gets louder, firmer, and I see the old LAPD cop in him come out.

  “The woman is a hoarder,” he points out. “Lives alone except for her dog. She loves her dog. Her house is a mess except for the area where the dog food, water, treats, toys, and medicine are kept. It’s spotless. But she said to the sheriff and to me that she was walking her dog that night, along the state road. She wasn’t.”

  Huang asks, “How do you know?”

  Sanchez says, “There was no leash. There was no leash on the porch, there was no leash by the door, there was no leash by her dog’s area. There’s no way she was walking her dog along that state road at night without her guy on a leash. I’m telling you, she’s lying about what she was doing that night.”

  I smile at my guy. “Good catch. Tomorrow pay her another visit. See what she has to say about that.”

  In the next few minutes there’s more pounding at the door from various journalists, which we all continue to ignore. Sanchez is in the corner, speaking Spanish to his wife, three time zones away. Huang and Pierce discuss the challenges of finding a way to get a pizza delivered past the reporters, Connie works on her computer, and I stare at the whiteboard.

  We’re starting to get evidence, which is a good thing.

  But between the photos up there of the Rangers and the list of the dead civilians, there’s still a wide and visible gap.

  What’s the connection?

  Why were the Rangers there?

  If Staff Sergeant Jefferson knows the layout of the property, doesn’t that put them there? Especially with the forensic evidence of fingerprints and shell casings?

  My cell phone vibrates and I dig it out of my jacket pocket. The ID says ANONYMOUS CALLER once more.

  I answer it, thinking if I’m lucky this time I’ll be told my Microsoft computer needs repairs, when a woman’s voice says, “Major Cook?”

  “Here,” I say.


  There’s the sound of music and people talking in the background, and she says in a louder voice, “It’s Sheriff Williams. I know it’s late and all, but I was hoping we could talk.”

  “Certainly,” I say. “What’s going on, Sheriff?”

  She says, “I just found out why your Rangers killed all those people.”

  Chapter 27

  THE PARKING LOT of the Sullivan Memorial Baptist Church is nearly packed, and Special Agent Connie York wants to drop off Major Cook and Special Agent Sanchez at the entrance, but from the rear seat her boss says, “No. We’ll all go in together.”

  Connie finds a spot after a couple of minutes circling the parking lot, like a Predator drone seeking targets of opportunity. When they get out of the battered Ford Fusion and start toward the church, Sanchez looks at the hood and shakes his head.

  “Great driving there, Connie,” he says. “I’m sure it’ll buff right out.”

  Before Connie can shoot back a comment, Cook says, “I told her to go down that road, to follow the car that had been tailing us. Unless you want to try fixing it when we get back to the motel, knock it off, Sanchez.”

  Inwardly Connie smiles as Sanchez takes the hit from the major, and the three of them slowly make their way to the side entrance of the church hall. Amplified voices come from inside the building, followed by applause and cheers. Two extended black vans pull up into open handicapped spots and the doors pop open, TV camera crews and reporters sprinting out.

  “Incoming Fourth Estate,” Sanchez says.

  Through a grimace—no doubt from his aching leg—Cook says, “Just ignore them.”

  Connie gets to the church door first and opens it up, and a plump woman in a pink dress holding a clipboard and a deputy sheriff in a brown-and-tan uniform are standing there. The deputy sheriff—LINDSAY, according to his name tag—says, “Help you folks?”

  From behind them Connie hears voices say, “Hold on, just a moment, please, we have some questions…”

  Cook says, “Major Jeremiah Cook, Army CID, with Special Agents York and Sanchez. We’re here to see Sheriff Williams.”

  The woman frowns as she looks down at the clipboard, but the young uniformed man says, “Bonnie, it’s okay, the sheriff told me they were coming in.”

  They slip inside, and Connie looks back as the TV crews and reporters try to come in, but Bonnie—raising the clipboard like a shield—holds them back, saying over and over again, “I’m sorry, you’re not on the list…I’m sorry, you’re not on the list…”

  The interior of the hall is hot and crowded, with rows of folding chairs packed with people, and at the other end of the hall—flanked by US and Georgia state flags—a ruddy-faced man with carefully set black hair, wearing a gray suit, white shirt, and red tie and standing on a small stage, speaks into a wireless microphone, an arm around the shoulders of Sheriff Emma Williams. Four male deputies stand to the other side of the man speaking, all four looking embarrassed to be there.

  “And I know you people well, and your brothers and sisters, serving overseas, for whom I pledge my undying assistance, many of whom I’ve met firsthand. And I thank Sheriff Williams and everyone here in Sullivan County for your continuing and deep support, which I’ll take with me to the United States Senate! Thank you and God bless!”

  Whoops, hollers, and applause, the flashing of cameras, and the man hands off his microphone to an aide, turns and gives the sheriff a handshake and a peck on the cheek, and then moves into the crowd.

  Major Cook raises his voice to Deputy Lindsay. “Who’s that?”

  “Him?” Lindsay answers. “That there’s Representative Mason Conover from Georgia’s First District, and in less than two weeks he’s gonna be one of our new senators. Come along, folks, I know Sheriff Williams wants to see you.”

  The large, muscular deputy sheriff clears a path for Connie, Sanchez, and the major, and Connie has the oddest feeling she’s met Lindsay before, which is impossible. But there’s that little itch at the base of her skull that tells her she knows him from somewhere.

  Large campaign signs, including Conover’s, are tacked up around the walls, naming other candidates, from potential Congress members to potential sheriffs—and there’s Williams’s name, and sure enough, there’s Briggs, the local funeral home director, running again for county coroner.

  What a way to run a county, she thinks, and then she, Sanchez, and the major are ushered into a kitchen area, with sinks, refrigerators, stoves, and metal countertops. Sheriff Williams is sitting on a stool near a shiny metal preparation table, and she takes off her round dark-brown uniform hat, revealing a band of sweat above her brow.

  “Politics,” she says. “Ain’t it something?”

  The three of them take stools around the preparation table as the sheriff turns to the deputy and says, “Clark? Do me a favor and ask Zell to come in here with my business case. Thanks.”

  After he departs, she smiles and says, “My deputies, all good boys. So proud of ’em.”

  With just the four of them now in the kitchen, Williams says, “Can I get you folks something cold to drink?”

  Sanchez keeps his mouth shut. Connie could use something to cut the dryness in her mouth but senses tension from her boss and waits for him to take the lead.

  “No,” he says. “We’re fine.”

  Another deputy sheriff comes in, carrying a soft brown leather satchel, which he hands over to the sheriff, and, damn it, Connie has the very same feeling as before. She has the oddest sense that she knows this man, too, just like the other deputy. Or at least has seen them before.

  What is going on with her? The heat? The lack of sleep? The meals that aren’t anything but deep-fried?

  The sheriff reaches into the case, slips out a manila folder, and then pulls a photo from the folder. “This fella. He sure looks familiar, now, doesn’t he?”

  Williams slides the photo across, and she and Cook give it a look. It’s a Savannah Police Department booking photo of a young man, and she instantly recognizes him.

  “That’s Stuart Pike,” she says. “The man found in the second-floor bedroom, still in bed.”

  “That’s right,” Williams says. “He’s the official renter for The Summer House, and he was involved in a bit more than moving marijuana.” She taps her finger on the photo. “Seems he was arrested last month, for selling fentanyl near Savannah State University. Out on bail. We here in the county didn’t know about this sideline of his, ’cause if we did, we would have gotten to him earlier.”

  Another photo comes out and is placed on the table, next to the booking shot. This is a formal color photo, of a young and, Connie notes, very attractive African American woman wearing a light-blue formal dress. Her smile is wide and confident, and her eyes seem bright with joy and intelligence.

  Sanchez asks, “Who is this young lady?”

  “Carol Crosby,” Williams says. “A junior at Savannah State. She’s studying marine biology, did an internship last year up in Maine, at the Shoals Marine Laboratory. Perfect 4.0 grade-point average. A couple of weeks ago, though, poor Carol was at an off-campus party. Looks like her drink got spiked, maybe as a joke, maybe by mistake.”

  Connie says, “An overdose, then.”

  Williams nods. “Oh, yes. It was touch and go for a while, but now she’s in recovery over in Hilton Head, taking some time off from school.”

  Cook says, “What’s the connection?”

  Another tap of the finger. “This girl here. Carol Crosby.”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t understand,” Cook says.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” Williams says, though her voice is definitely not sympathetic. “I thought you Army investigators would have known all of this. Carol Crosby, she’s the stepdaughter of Staff Sergeant Jefferson, the head of that Ranger squad. Her mamma died a few years back from cancer, and Staff Sergeant Jefferson, he’s been a proud single parent ever since.”

  Even with what’s going on in the adjacent function hall, Connie feels
like it’s gotten awfully quiet.

  Williams says, “Detective Josh Gregory, over in Savannah, when he heard about the Rangers being arrested, he dug back some and came up with Mr. Pike here. You see, Pike was arrested by a drug squad headed by Josh’s crew near the college campus, and a while later some guy called up, asking for information about whether Pike was the source of the fentanyl that nearly killed young Carol Crosby. The caller said he was calling from Hunter, and the detective who answered the phone, he used to be stationed there…Well, it ended up the detective bent investigation protocol and told this caller that, yes, Pike was the supplier.”

  Cook looks down again at the two photos. “And?”

  “And the caller said, ‘Well, that man and whoever’s working with him, they’re gonna pay a price.’ And hung up. Josh did some additional digging around, couriered these photos over to me, with one other bit of information.”

  “What’s that?” Connie asks.

  Sheriff Williams picks up the two photos—one of a now dead man, the other of a nearly dead woman—and puts them back into her satchel. “That call came from Staff Sergeant Jefferson’s cell phone.”

  The sheriff zippers the bag shut, then looks at Connie and Cook with a sad but determined look.

  “That’s what happened,” she says. “That sergeant and those Rangers, they went into that house, all angry and fired up, and killed every living soul there. Even that little innocent baby. You know it, and I know it, and one of these days all four are gonna get a needle in their veins. You can count on it.”

  Chapter 28

  AT NEARLY 2:00 A.M. on Monday morning, following a very busy Sunday, the woman is very pleased to be out of her uniform, in civvy clothes, her body relaxing from not wearing all that damn gear. She’s carefully driving her civilian car on a narrow dirt road that borders a swampy area near Hunter Army Airfield, and when she comes to a wide part of the road, she stops the car, switches off the engine and lights, and steps out.

  The damn wild area here is full of noise, from frogs to insects and birds, and speaking of birds, a Black Hawk helicopter and then another one fly overhead, going to the lit area on the horizon marking the runway for Hunter.