“From his family?”
“No,” he says.
“Who, then?”
Another pause and she glances at Pierce, who glances right back at her with a look of expectation upon his face. Briggs clears his throat. “Why, Sheriff Williams contacted me and told me to go ahead with the cremation. She told me that a family member had contacted her.”
“You just went ahead and did it, then,” Connie asks.
“Why not?”
Connie makes a chopping motion with her right hand, and Pierce disconnects the phone call. Up ahead is the now familiar dirt road off to the right, leading to The Summer House.
She makes the turn, speeding right by the old sign, the other Fords following behind her, and then she sees a haze, some parked vehicles with flashing lights, and when the smell of something burning comes to her, she knows once again she’s too late.
York slows down and approaches the house as Pierce says, “Oh, shit, look at that.”
On the scene are two brown-and-white cruisers from the Sullivan County Sheriff’s Department and two fire engines from the town’s volunteer fire department. About a half dozen firefighters wearing bright-yellow turnout gear and helmets are wetting down what’s left of the house, which is a smoldering, smoking pile of collapsed wood, shingles, and broken windows.
She parks the rental behind the nearest cruiser and steps out, the smell of smoke thick and disappointing. Even with Pierce next to her, and quickly followed by Huang and Sanchez, never has she felt so utterly alone. Even doing traffic stops along the highways of Virginia, back in her state trooper days, she was never entirely by herself if something went south. If she got into something desperate or dangerous back then, help was one quick radio broadcast away.
Not here.
This entire place is against her and the CID team.
Two men and a woman dressed in the brown and tan of the Sullivan County Sheriff’s Department are talking to an older man who has ASST. CHIEF lettered on the back of his coat, and then the woman—Sheriff Williams, of course—breaks away and comes over, a very happy and satisfied smile on her face.
Even with the thick Georgia heat, York is taken aback by the confidence in that woman’s smile.
She’s getting away with it, whatever the hell it is, and she’s not showing any fear or concern.
“Morning, folks,” she says, stepping closer. “Hell of a thing, isn’t it? A nice old historical home like this burning down. A real pity.”
York shakes her head. “Arson?”
A shrug. “Could be. We’ll have to wait for the fire inspectors to figure it out. Might take a month or two.”
One by one, the other members of her squad line up next to her, tired, beat down, and now seeing another piece of evidence literally go up in smoke.
“How convenient,” York says.
Sanchez says, “Yeah, damn convenient.”
Something seems to crackle in the air. The sheriff steps in closer, and her two deputies do the same. Williams’s face seems to change, from the open cheeriness of earlier to something hard and dark, and then she changes again.
Smiles.
She reaches out, touches the damaged hood of the Ford. “Wow, will you look at this. Recent collision damage. Looks like you hit something hard.”
York keeps quiet. A piece of the shattered roof of the house collapses, causing a flare-up and another billow of smoke. The sheriff says, “You know, funny thing, the other night Randy Poplar, he runs a private shooting club over on the north side of town, he reported that somebody ran into his pipe gate. Dented it all to hell.”
The sheriff rubs the hood of the car. “His pipe gate is painted white, and look what we got here. White paint scrapes. Damn coincidence, I’m sure.”
“I’m sure,” York says.
“Still, to be certain, I might want to investigate further,” and again her tone changes, becoming slow, threatening. “Seize this vehicle. Match the paint scrapings here. Hell, the more I look into this, there might be charges down the road. Know what I mean? Failure to report an accident. Leaving the scene of an accident. Causing an accident resulting in excess of a thousand dollars in damages. Lots of potential criminal liabilities out there.”
The smile pops back. “But, Agent York, I hear you folks are being called back to Virginia. Packing up and leaving. Wrapping up your work here. Looks like the only problem you’ll have is facing the rental company when you get back to the Savannah airport.”
York smiles back. “Sorry, Sheriff, you’ve heard wrong.”
That startles the sheriff. Good.
“What did you say?”
York says, “You heard wrong. We’re not leaving. Not today, not tomorrow. We’re leaving when our job is done. No matter what burns down, who disappears, or who flies back to Mumbai, we’re staying on this case. If you’ve forgotten, we’re the US Army, and we don’t back down.”
Williams makes the slightest shake of her head, and the two strong-looking and armed deputies move as one to back her up.
The sheriff says, “This county ain’t for you.”
York heads back to the open door of her car.
“Oh, you’re wrong, Sheriff,” York says. “I love it here. It’s a great, charming place. You know, when I retire, I might even move down here and find a little place to live. Get used to it, Sheriff. My squad and I are going to be here for a long time to come.”
Chapter 54
BACK AT THE Route 119 Motel and Coffee Shop, York brakes hard, taking up two spaces and not really giving a shit. The two other sedans pull in, and she takes out the key to Major Cook’s room, walks in, and—
The place is clean.
Fresh linens on the bed.
Carpet cleaned.
His suitcase on the floor next to the door.
She goes over to the trash bin.
Empty as well.
She clenches a fist, rubs it against her forehead.
What did Major Cook say, just before he left?
There’s a piece of paper, a note. From a local newspaper reporter. Peggy something or other. She wants an interview. Talk to her. She’ll be your local intelligence agency.
She turns, and Sanchez, Pierce, and Huang are inside the room.
“Quick,” she says. “Anybody know where they dump the trash for this place?”
Huang says, “I went out for a run early yesterday morning. There’s a Dumpster out behind the coffee shop.”
She brushes by them, goes out, and, damn it, a herd of reporters is out there, with cameras, notepads, pens, and they pepper her with questions as she makes a quick walk to the coffee shop.
“Excuse me, do you have any comment on the suicide…”
“Will the Army defend these killers of innocents…”
“Do you think the Army is responsible for the death of that little girl…”
She pushes through, gets around the corner of the building, and Sanchez is behind her, and bless Pierce and Huang, they hang back, block the reporters, trying to give her a few seconds to herself.
There’s low brush, plastic bags of trash, broken bottles, wooden pallets leaning up against the concrete-block wall. Ventilation fans hum in the side of the building. A dirt lot bordered by brush and saplings. A green Dumpster is next to the rear entrance of the coffee shop. She stops, sees a puddle near the bottom of the metal container, where grease, waste, and other nasty fluids have seeped out. Clouds of flies are buzzing around the open cover.
Sanchez says, “Damn,” but he’s smiling at her, like he’s daring her.
Dare taken.
She steps up to the Dumpster, grabs the greasy metal edge, hauls herself up, and falls in, losing a shoe in the process.
York tries breathing through her mouth, but it’s hard to keep focused. She’s knee-deep in trash, sludge, bottles, empty cans. No recycling program here in Sullivan County. There are vegetable peelings, cold mashed potatoes, clumps of grease, chewed rib bones, crumpled and soiled napkins, chicken b
ones. So many flies are buzzing and hovering that she’s afraid she’s going to swallow some.
Get to work, she thinks. Get to work.
Using bare hands—damn it, why didn’t she get a pair of gloves before diving in so quickly?—she moves piles of trash, broken green bags, more trash and peelings and sludge tumbling out, and she makes a mistake, breathing through her nose, and her mouth starts filling with saliva. Nausea is coming at her in waves.
“You okay in there, Agent York?” Sanchez asks from outside.
She’s afraid if she tries to talk, the vomiting will begin, and she doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction.
In a corner is a pile of smaller, white plastic trash bags.
Like the ones motel and hotel maids use on their carts. She trudges over, breathing hard, something sharp poking her left leg, and she tears open the near bag. Crumpled paper towels, used tissues, scraps of plastic, and—
Bits of paper. Note paper.
Sopped through with coffee.
Connie carefully unfolds the notes, laying out the little bits of paper on a nearby piece of cardboard. CNN, the New York Times, Atlanta Journal-Constitution.
A note in careful cursive, with a phone number at the bottom.
Dear Army officer,
It would really make me happy to talk to you about what happened at The Summer House.
Sincerely,
Peggy Reese
Connie memorizes the phone number, folds up the wet paper, puts it into her coat pocket. The flies are so thick that it looks like ashes are falling from the sky. She stumbles through the piles again, gets to the wall, and hauls herself up and over, falling to the ground. Sanchez is there and steps back, bringing a hand up to his face.
“God, Agent York, you stink.”
She sits up against the Dumpster. “Nice powers of observation. Get me my bag, will you?”
There’s just a passing look in Sanchez’s eyes—What am I, your gofer?—but he does as he’s told, and he brings over her bag. She digs out her cell phone and makes the call to Peggy Reese of the Sullivan County Times.
No answer.
She can hear the voices of reporters out there, beyond the brush and piles of trash.
Sanchez squats down next to her.
“We’ll try later,” she says.
“I don’t like it,” Sanchez says. “You talk with reporters, you always get screwed.”
“Well, good for the investigation that I don’t agree with you.”
York goes back into the bag, takes out her Iridium 9555 satellite phone, powers it up. Waits a moment, and then dials a preprogrammed number.
Ring.
Ring.
Ring.
Nothing.
Sanchez says, “I thought these phones have worldwide coverage.”
“Most times,” she says. “Most times.”
Damn it, she thinks as the crowd of reporters plows its way through and starts asking questions, taking photos, pushing and shoving.
A horrible thought comes to her. The last time she saw their boss he was walking into Fourth Battalion headquarters. But that doesn’t mean he got on a transport to Afghanistan, now, does it? Maybe the reason the sat phone isn’t getting answered is that it’s not in his possession. Maybe he’s in detention somewhere back at Hunter.
Where’s Major Cook?
Chapter 55
IN HIS CELL at the Ralston town jail, Staff Sergeant Caleb Jefferson makes a decision and then gets off his bunk. Funny, when the decision is made, then it’s done. You go out and do the job, and respond to emerging threats and situations, but there’s no second-guessing, not in the Rangers. You learn lessons at some point, but when you set off on a mission, there’s no looking back.
Ever.
At the other end of the block, one of the jail attendants with a meal cart is passing out an early supper—usually barely warm hot dogs in untoasted buns, a bag of chips, a mustard packet, a juice box. Jefferson raps the old metal bars with his hands and says, “Hey, you down there. I need to see the chief. Straightaway.”
The attendant is a chubby, surly young boy wearing a tan uniform and light-blue latex gloves. He says, “I’ll get to him, soon enough. I’m doing my job here.”
“And doing it so fine,” Jefferson says, and he goes back and sits down on his bunk. A couple of minutes later, the young boy comes back, drops a paper plate with the supper on it, and shoves it into Jefferson’s cell with a foot. Then he leaves, pushing the meal cart before him.
The Ranger picks up the two cold hot dogs, makes sure they’ve not been spit upon or tampered with, and in a few minutes, supper is finished.
Corporal Barnes calls out, “Everything okay, Sergeant?”
“It’s perfect,” he says, wiping his hands with two brown paper napkins.
Specialist Ruiz says, “You sure, Sergeant? I don’t remember this part coming up, you seeing the chief.”
Jefferson crumples up the napkins, steps up to the bars. Both Barnes and Ruiz are standing close to the bars of their respective cells, wearing the same dull orange jumpsuit as Jefferson. He tosses a crumpled napkin at each, and both go through the bars and strike their heads.
“No turning back now, gentlemen,” he says.
He hears a metallic clatter of a door opening, and a still-angry-looking Chief Kane strolls in. Jefferson has a funny thought that if the poor chief were to have a coronary and die right now, that angry look would probably stay on his face all the way through the funeral.
“What is it?” Kane asks.
Jefferson says, “Chief, we’ve been here a few days, and I’ve made a decision.”
The chief hitches a hand on his utility belt. “What decision is that?”
“I want to meet with that Army lawyer who’s been trying to see me and the rest of my team. As soon as can be arranged. I want to meet him, and I want the district attorney to be here at the same time.”
Kane looks suspicious. “Why the hell should I do that? You had your chance before. You turned it down. Why should I let you do it now?”
Jefferson drapes his big hands over one of the crossbars of his cell door. “Because having us around here is a royal pain in the ass, isn’t it, Chief? And wouldn’t you like to get rid of us as soon as possible? Stop all the phone calls, all the news media banging on your door at all hours of the day? Get me that Army lawyer and the district attorney, and I’ll make it happen.”
“How?” Kane asks, and in addition to the suspicion on his face, Jefferson sees something else in the man’s eyes: hope that this whole mess will go away.
Jefferson grins, steps back from the barred door. “Just you wait and see.”
Chapter 56
WHEN I WAKE UP, my Bruce Catton book on the Civil War is on the floor of the C-17 and I hear the whine of the engines as we prep to leave Ramstein after the hour-long refueling stop. I would love to bend down and pick up the book, but right now my body is in dull-ache mode, and it’s the best I’ve felt in the last few hours, so I stay still.
The interior of this transport aircraft is huge, eighty-eight feet in length and eighteen feet in width, and most of the inside is taken up with pallets and containers of equipment for the Fourth Battalion, tied down with webbed straps. Also along as cargo are three Rangers from Beta Company of the Fourth Battalion, and in the flight to Germany, they sat as a group on the starboard side of the aircraft. Only once did they pay attention to me, when they realized I had no food or water, and one of the specialists gave me a bottle of water and three energy bars.
The aircraft sighs to a halt.
We wait.
Wait some more.
In a forward area is a door marked LAVATORY, and beyond that is a small corridor leading to a galley. Next to that, a steep set of stairs leads up to the flight deck. The overhead curved ceiling is crammed with wires and conduits.
On this mission the craft has a loadmaster and three pilots, one acting as a reserve so each one can get some sleep, and across from me,
one Ranger nudges another, who nudges the third.
I look over.
One of the pilots is coming down the stairs from the flight deck, not looking happy. I check my watch. It’s almost 3:00 a.m. in Ramstein, on Wednesday.
The pilot comes over to me, leans down. He has captain’s bars on his Air Force flight suit.
“Got a problem here,” he says, voice loud over the sound of the four idling engines.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, knowing that whatever it is, it’s all on me.
He says, “Got a flash message from the control tower. They want to know if I’ve got an Army officer aboard named Cook. What did you say your name was again, back at Hunter?”
I don’t know why I do it, but there’s something in the pilot’s tone of voice and I casually move my left hand over to the right side of my chest, give it a good scratch.
“I didn’t.”
The pilot stares at me hard.
“Mind telling me just what the hell you are, Major?”
“I’m an investigator with the CID. I need to get to Afghanistan because…”
Why is a very good question. I’ve thought about it, over and over again in the long hours above the Atlantic, running through the investigation and what my crew and I have learned, and I’ve come to some sort of conclusion, but this will be the very first time I dare to say it aloud.
I lift myself off the seat a bit, so the pilot can hear every word, and even through the sudden pain, I make myself clear:
“I need to get to Afghanistan because a team of Army Rangers is being railroaded, and I need to find evidence they’re innocent before they get executed.”
The pilot looks over at the three Army Rangers, ready to go into combat in Afghanistan, and turns back to me, nods.
“Glad we got that cleared up,” he says. “Major.”
He turns around and climbs up the steps to the flight deck. One of the Army Rangers sitting across from me gives me a brief nod, unbuckles from his seat, and comes over. He doesn’t say a word but picks up my Bruce Catton book and hands it over to me. I nod in thanks, and he goes back to his place. I suppose if I was the investigator the NYPD and Army think I am, I would go over and try to interview these Rangers, to see if they have any knowledge or feelings about the Ninja Squad, but I know in my gut that the real truth and evidence are not here but where I’m headed.
The Summer House Page 19
