The Summer House(48)

“Not at the moment,” I say.

“Why?” Connie asks.

“Because I’ll have to tell him that one of the four Army Rangers is dead, that we’ve got overwhelming evidence putting those Rangers at the scene of the murders, and that this evidence sucks. Too convenient, too helpful, and too screwy. I do that right now, I’ll be on the phone with him forever, and we don’t have the time. There are too many things moving too quickly.”

I turn at the sound of the door unlocking, and Pierce and Huang are coming in, hands empty. I’m wondering what went wrong when Sheriff Williams follows them in, with Sanchez right behind her.

Not a problem. Food can wait.

Williams is wearing a worn camo jumpsuit, zippered up the front, hands covered with black leather shooting gloves. She’s holding her carrying case in her right hand and says, “Major? Heard you were looking for me.”

I stand up, left leg complaining once more. “I am.”

“Good,” she says, holding up her bag. “Same here. And sorry to say, because I love the Army and such, I’ve got the final nails in those Rangers’ coffins.”





Chapter 39



WILLIAMS SITS AT the near table, takes a laptop out of her bag, and says, “I was on my way to have a peaceful afternoon at the range when I got a phone call and then an urgent email.” She powers up her laptop. “Then you contacted my office, and here I am.”

Chairs are pulled in, and I try to keep my leg out of the way.

As the sheriff’s computer comes to life, she says, “I see a hell of a lot of reporters out there. I bet it’s gonna get worse for you once the news gets out about that Ranger who just died. When I leave, I can send a couple of my off-duty deputies to set up a little cordon—at least they’ll keep the reporters at a distance.”

Huang looks like he’s been gut-punched, and I say, “No, we’ll be fine. What do you have, Sheriff?”

I know I should feel grateful to the sheriff for coming by, but it’s unsettling. I wanted to talk to her over the phone, on my terms, not have her barrel in, like she’s once more showing off that this is her town, her county, and ultimately her investigation.

Biting her lower lip, she works the keyboard and says, “Harold Blake, over at the GBI, gave me a frantic phone call and a screamer email a while ago about our Stuart Pike and his merry gang of drug dealers.”

I say, “You said earlier you considered the Georgia Bureau of Investigation vampires, that you never let them into an investigation because they’d take it over.”

“Yeah, I did say that, didn’t I?” she says. “But that’s if I invite them. And this was no invite. This was a sharing of information. Big difference.”

Sanchez—my former LA cop—says, “Cooperation is nice, when it happens.”

Williams flashes a smile at Sanchez. “Who said anything about cooperation? It was a sharing, that’s all. Investigator Blake and I go way back…including a weekend at Myrtle Beach when we were both younger and he was married. Okay, here we go.”

From the laptop’s tiny speakers comes a burst of static, and she says, “All right. This is what we have. My buddy Harold, he’s working on the South Georgia Drug Task Force. It’s a mix of GBI, the FBI, the DEA, and even the State Police. They’ve been doing a lot of investigating, tracking, and surveillance of drug dealers in this part of the state.”

Connie leans over the table. “Stuart Pike was being watched, then.”

“That’s right, young lady. They had The Summer House wired. Stem to stern. And Harold sent me—strictly on the QT—an excerpt from what was being recorded in Pike’s room the night of the shootings. I’ve listened to it three times…and by Christ, I get the chills each time. Now it’s your turn, I’m afraid.”

Williams rotates the laptop, and there’s an icon in the center of the screen, depicting a recording system. She puts her finger down on a button, and the hiss of the static gets louder.

Muffled voices. Music and little bursts of fake gunfire and explosions.

“Got you, you…” one of the voices calls out.

A low squeaking noise and a slight moan, and a louder man’s voice: “Will you shut up down there? Trying to get some rest…”

Williams says, “That figures to be Pike, in his bedroom. The other noise is from the two guys and gal downstairs, playing that video game. Okay, in about two seconds…”

I think, One one-thousand, two one-thousand…

A loud thump bursts out of the speakers. In my imagination I know what’s just happened: using det cord, the assailants have blown open the door.

Shouts.

Screams.

Muffled pop, pop, pop.

I know that sound.

Pistols with sound suppressors.

More screams.

Footsteps pounding on stairs.

“Go!” a woman screams. “Go!”

Sound of a door slamming open.

Man’s voice: “Gina, what the hell—”

“Stu, please, please—”

A little girl is crying.

I know I’ll never forget that sound, ever.

Two more muffled shots, then a low voice murmuring a sentence, and one more shot.

A few seconds pass by.