The Summer House(36)

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.”