The Summer House(20)

Marcello stares at her boss. “In other words, you big-foot right in and take over the investigation.”

“Not entirely accurate, sir.”

“If you say so.”

Marcello picks up a pen, signs the document before him. “Well, you’re here. You have questions, I’m sure. Ask away.”

“Sir, we’d like to interview fellow members of their platoon, to see if—”

“Not going to happen.”

From Connie’s vantage point, it seems like Cook is really leaning on his cane. The pain in his left leg must be awful this afternoon, with all the walking and standing.

“Sir?” Cook asks.

“Oh, didn’t I make myself clear? You cannot and will not interview members of that team’s platoon.”

“May I ask why, sir?”

“Certainly,” Marcello says, opening his center drawer and carefully putting his pen inside, then closing the drawer. “Because we are this nation’s firefighters, ready to go anywhere when the president tells us to go. We’re trained and equipped to deploy to anywhere in the world within eighteen hours. And in approximately”—he glances at a large watch on his large wrist—“two hours Alpha Company is boarding C-17s to go overseas. And those men don’t have time to talk to you. Nor do I, for you see, Major Cook, I’m leaving with them, to join them and Bravo and Charlie Companies.”

Connie is growing angrier and angrier with each passing second, hating how the lieutenant colonel is completely ignoring her.

Cook says, “With your deployment, sir, who will be assigned as rear detachment commander?”

A long second or two passes. Marcello says, “Not bad for a former NYPD cop. The rear detachment commander will be Captain Rory O’Connell. He has a few months left before his ETS, so he’ll be handling personnel issues and other routine matters for the battalion.”

“I’d like to arrange to interview him, sir,” Cook says.

“You don’t need my permission, Major. But he’ll be a busy man, dealing with the battalion’s affairs.” Another glance at his watch. “You have time for one more question, Major. Make it a good one.”

Cook says, “Sir, these four men under your command, they are in serious trouble, having been arrested in connection with the violent deaths of seven civilians. At some point in our investigation would you consider being a character witness for them?”

Connie is surprised at how quickly and violently Marcello delivers his one-sentence answer. “Not on your life.”

Cook says, “Sir…if I may…why is that?”

Marcello looks at his watch one more time. “In the field, there is no squad that I’d rather have at my back than Sergeant Jefferson’s. But we’re not always in the field. Since they’ve been CONUS, they’ve been a constant pain to me. Some years ago, Major, a predecessor to my battalion command saw his career ruined because his Rangers acted wild on post and off. That’s not going to happen to me. As far as I’m concerned, the quicker those four are convicted and sent off to prison the better.”

Cook says, “I see, sir.”

“Glad you do,” the colonel says.





Chapter 15



EVEN WITH HIS rental car’s air-conditioning, Special Agent Manuel Sanchez has sweated through his suit coat, shirt, and trousers, and his miserable day out in rural Georgia is not even close to being over. Following the tour of The Summer House—now forever to be known in their official paperwork as the murder house—Major Cook and Special Agent York headed off to Hunter Army Airfield. Lieutenant Huang and Captain Pierce were sent to the nearby town of Ralston to interview the four jailed Rangers.

Cook said to Sanchez, “The sheriff said a woman witness was out walking her dog the night of the killings. That means she’s around here. Go find her and talk to her.”

But as Sanchez quickly learned, around here is a pretty wide swath of mostly empty land.

The nearest two dirt roads off the main road led to nothing but dead-end turnarounds, sprinkled with empty beer cans, broken cardboard boxes, and plenty of shot-up targets and broken bottles.

The third dirt lane led to an empty house.

The fourth dirt driveway ended at a worn and sagging gray house, where a heavyset, tattooed, bearded man wearing cut-off jean shorts and rubber boots up to his knees—and no shirt—came out onto the leaning porch with an old couch taking up most of it, eyed Sanchez as he identified himself, and then said, “You’re not one of those Jehovah’s Witness types, are you?”

“No, sir,” he said. “Like I said, I’m a special agent in the US Army, conducting an investigation.”

“About what?”

“The people who were murdered up the road, at the place called The Summer House.”

The man scratched at his hairy belly and said, “Don’t know nothing about that. But if you do see any Witnesses in your travels, tell ’em not to bother knockin’ on my door. My soul ain’t worth saving.”

Now he’s at a third house, going down a short but wide dirt driveway that has a campaign sign at its entrance—REELECT SHERIFF WILLIAMS—and when he gets out of the silver Ford sedan, he hears a dog barking from inside the single-story ranch-style home, with yellow clapboards, black shutters, and peeling paint.