The Summer House(22)

He nods. “True, I’m sorry to say. What did you hear? Or see?”

Wendy wipes at her eyes. “So sad. So very, very sad…Well, it wasn’t sad then, it was just strange, that’s all. I was with Toby, and I heard a loud bang, like a truck was backfiring. Then a bit of gunfire…not loud, but like…well, like they were shooting from the bottom of a well. Now, I know what regular shooting sounds like, but maybe it sounded different because it was inside, not outside? You know what I mean?”

“That I do,” he says. “And did you hear anything else?”

“Well, before the shooting happened, a helicopter flew over. And after the shooting stopped, we walked another minute or two, and just by that dirt road, this Ford pickup is driving real fast and nearly runs me and Toby down. They stopped for just a second, and then they sped off, went north.”

“Did you see who was driving?”

“This real angry-looking black man, and there was another fella sitting next to him. They both looked at me, and, Christ, I was scared. I don’t know why, but the way they looked at me, they frightened me some.”

“Had you ever seen those men before?”

“Nope.”

Sanchez is taking notes, mind dancing along, knowing that when this case comes to trial, she’s going to be one hell of a witness for the county.

“Ma’am, Sheriff Williams says you remembered the license plate of the truck. Is that right?”

“That’s right.”

“Well, excuse me for saying this, but did you write it down?”

“Nope.”

“Had you seen the truck before in the area?”

“Nope.”

“Then…”

The first smile of his visit appears. “You’re asking me how I remembered what I saw? Easy. I like doing them puzzle books, you know, fill in the blanks and the crossword puzzles? Letters and numbers, they stick with me. I remembered the first three letters and the first number…afraid I didn’t catch the rest.”

“And what was that?”

“The letters T-B-B, followed by the numeral 3. The sheriff later told me, when she thanked me for being a witness and picking those photos of those two fellas, she said she was able to trace down the letters and number and match it to that angry black guy driving the truck.”

“But the letters and the numeral 3? Why did you remember that?”

“Easy,” she says. “T for Toby. And B-B because I call him Baby all the time. And the number 3—that’s how old he is. Toby Baby 3.”

Sanchez writes that down, as Toby Baby remains outside, howling and running.

“Ma’am, when did you learn about the murders?”

“When Deputy Coulson, when he came by the next day, asking me if I saw anything in the area the night before. I told him and gave him the license plate letters and number, and a few hours later, I was at the county building, talking to the sheriff.”

There you go, Sanchez thinks, and he says, “Ma’am, is there anything else you can tell me? Anything else at all?”

She shakes her head, the smile fading, still looking tired and discarded. “No, I can’t think of anything.”

Sanchez takes out his business card, passes it over. “Ma’am, thanks so much for your help. I greatly appreciate it. This card has the number for my cell phone and my office. You think of anything, anything at all, call me at any time.”

He gets up, and the woman looks at both sides of the card and says, “Is there a reward?”

Sanchez says, “If I find out there’s one, you’ll be the first to know.”

He gives the place one good last glance, from the piles of dirty dishes in the sink to the endless piles of mail and other junk to the two coats and umbrella hanging from the coatrack to the water bowl and bowl of food. There are also three doggie chew toys, neatly lined up. Two covered plastic bins neatly filled with dry dog food. A shelf that holds a grooming brush and small boxes of dog vitamins and pills.

Wendy opens the door, leading the way out, and yells, “Toby! Toby Baby! Come back home now! You come!”

He goes to his car, gives the woman a pleasant wave, gets into the car, and starts up the engine, letting the cold air just wash over him.

Sanchez makes a turn and then heads away from the woman’s home, wondering why Wendy Gabriel lied to him.





Chapter 16



CAPTAIN ALLEN PIERCE is lost, a feeling he hates, and he turns around once more in the town of Sullivan, looking for the district attorney’s office. Twice he has parked at the county courthouse, which also holds the sheriff’s department and is next to the county jail, and both times the doors were locked, even though an earlier phone call to the district attorney said he would be waiting for Allen in his office.

What the hell is going on here? Are the locals making fun of the Army outsiders and laughing while seeing them go around in circles? There’s been a group of residents sitting on benches across the way at a park that proudly boasts a Confederate Army soldier statue, and Allen is feeling that’s exactly what’s going on.

He looks at his iPhone, checks the address for District Attorney Cornelius Slate, sees the address, and—

The numbers don’t match.

On the wooden sign near the parking lot is the number 44, noting the street address for the county buildings.