The Summer House(28)

Goes back to the road.

The license plate is clear. The color of the car is easy to make out, as well as the car brand.

That’s it.

He returns to the car, switches off the headlights, puts on the parking lights once more.

Goes back to the road.

Waits.

The overhead utility light fades in and out, the yellow light faint.

An engine loudly starts up, and his LAPD instincts kick in as he leaps away from the road, just as a pickup truck roars by, so close he feels the warmth from the exhaust pipe. The truck races down the road and brakes, squealing rubber.

The truck’s lights are doused.

It waits, somewhere down the road.

Sanchez’s SIG Sauer is in his hands. He doesn’t remember pulling it from his holster. He quickly goes to the Ford, switches off the parking lights. He drops to one knee, holding the pistol in both hands, over the hood of his rental car.

The truck is still there.

Engine running loudly.

No lights. No voices. No honky-tonk tunes coming from within. He’s pretty sure the driver switched off the engine some ways back and coasted down here before roaring by, to catch him by surprise.

Sanchez wishes he could trade the rented sedan for one of the unit cars he used back when he was a cop. Then at least he’d have some heavier firepower, a Remington 870 pump-action shotgun or a Bushmaster .223 semiautomatic rifle with a thirty-round magazine.

The driver revs the engine.

Sanchez whispers, “Come on, pendejo, come on back and let’s play.”

Another squeal of rubber and the truck roars down the highway, and a few seconds later, its headlights and taillights flick on, like the driver is taunting him.

Sanchez stands up, puts the SIG Sauer back in its holster.

The overhead streetlight is still weak, and he looks into the car interior and sees not a thing.





Chapter 20



STAFF SERGEANT CALEB JEFFERSON stares at his late-night visitor and says, “How the hell did you get in here?”

Major Frank Moore, executive officer for the Fourth Battalion, says, “I spun a tale. What else? I told the jail attendant I really, really needed to see you, and she wouldn’t let me in, and then I pulled the weary war vet who needs help bullshit story.”

Jefferson says, “And that got you here?”

Moore shakes his head. “Nah. I had to promise to give her a helicopter ride next week.”

“Sir, you need to leave, right now,” Jefferson says. “This isn’t helping.”

“But you need to know a couple of things, and I sure as hell don’t trust the phones here or at the post,” Moore says.

The major is a good guy and has run interference for him several times with the battalion commander, Lieutenant Colonel Marcello, but Moore’s exposing himself, being an hour away from post and at this town jail.

“All right, sir, but please, make it quick.”

The major is still in his fatigues, and he lowers his voice. “The battalion commander was interviewed earlier today by two CID investigators.”

“I’m sure Marcello told the investigators what fine, upstanding troopers we are.”

Moore smiles. “I had my ear to the door. He threw all of you under the bus, you know, the heavy-duty one with spiked tires.”

“You drove out here to tell me this?” Jefferson asks.

“Staff Sergeant, I’m an officer, but I try not to be stupid,” he says. “The crew that’s here, looking into things…it’s not a typical CID investigation. They’re here from Quantico, and they’re going to poke into anything and everything.”

“I know that,” Jefferson says. “My guys and I were interviewed a few hours ago by a shrink, trying to find out what makes us tick.”

“What did you tell him?”

Jefferson says, “I told the nosy little shit I wet the bed a lot when I was a kid and had mommy issues. What do you think?”

“This isn’t a joking matter, Sergeant.”

“Again, you drove out here to tell me that, sir?” he asks. “Major Moore, did they talk to you as well?”

“That they did,” Moore says. “I told them I hardly knew you and your squad.”

“Good job, sir,” he says, pleased that this officer, at least, is on the beam. “Is there anything else?”

“Your aunt Sophie called me,” he says.

Oh, shit, Jefferson thinks. “No.”

“Yes,” Major Moore says.

“Is everything all right with Carol?”

Moore says, “Oh, yes, Carol is doing fine under the circumstances. What we talked about earlier is all set. But Aunt Sophie knows you and yours are in trouble, and she wants to—”

“No,” Jefferson says.

“Sergeant, all she wants—”

“Sir, no,” Jefferson says. “It’s all under control. Everything is under control, thanks to you. But if my aunt starts making a fuss, it’ll be all done. Game over. You call my aunt on your way home, tell her to keep quiet. Please. Keep quiet.”

“Sergeant, are you sure?”

“A hundred percent,” he says, scraping his chair back. “Call my aunt when you can. Tell her I’m fine, tell her thanks for taking care of my girl. And that I’ll come over for a visit when I can. But be careful. Call my aunt from a pay phone on your way back.”