The Summer House(59)

And speaking of grieving families, Briggs gets right to the point.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but you’ve come at a very bad time,” he says. “I have the Parnell family arriving in a few minutes. You need to be out of my office by then. You see, their poor son died last night, in their garage.”

“Suicide?” Connie asks.

“In a manner of speaking,” he says. “The young lad died of an overdose, like so many others in this county. One of the hardest parts will be writing the obituary. We often say ‘died suddenly at home,’ but most folks know what that means nowadays. Now, again, tell me why you’re here?”

“The bodies of the victims,” she says. “We’d like to examine them again.”

And grab one on our way out, she thinks, until we can figure out what to do next.

“I’m sorry, but all save one have been turned over to their respective families.”

Sanchez butts in. “For real? Why so soon?”

Briggs still looks mournful. “Why not? With regard to the bodies, the county sheriff has told us her investigation is complete. She authorized me to release the remains. The last family left about thirty minutes ago, the Gleason boy.”

Connie says, “Hold on. You said ‘all save one.’ Who’s left?”

“The poor gent who had his arms broken,” Briggs says. “Arrangements for his remains are still up in the air.”

“That’s good,” Connie says, “because our investigation isn’t complete, and we’d like to view him again.”

No need to mention taking Pike. She trusts Pierce, the JAG lawyer, has a strategy to use when the right time comes.

“All right, I suppose you can do that, for all the good it will do you.”

A little shiver of cold caresses the back of Connie’s neck. “I’m sorry, what do you mean by that?”

Briggs points to the cardboard box. “I received directions to cremate his remains, and there they are, waiting to be shipped to Savannah.”

The room falls silent. Connie thinks she hears the quick intake of breath from Pierce and Huang.

Briggs says, “Is there anything else I can do for the Army?”





Chapter 52



SPEEDING INTO THE parking lot of Route 119 Gas N’ Go, Special Agent Connie York nearly runs into a motorcyclist pulling out from the pumps—a woman with a helmet and leathers flipping her the bird as she roars out onto the state road—and Connie thinks, Sure. Why not? One more piece of bad luck to maintain the tone of her day.

She pulls into an empty space, and the second Ford, driven by Sanchez, who was determined to tailgate her all the way over here, pulls in next to her. Then Huang parks, in the third rental car. Beside her in the car, Pierce says, “Don’t let Manuel get you down.”

“I won’t,” she says, taking the keys out of the ignition. “But when I get a chance, either later this week or during our respective disciplinary hearings, I plan to ring his bell.”

“You do that, you’ll get free representation from me.”

York gets out, Sanchez and Huang exit their cars, and they all go into the convenience store, thankfully empty of customers. Behind the counter is an older Indian man, with a thick moustache and bright eyes and a big smile, wearing gray slacks and a pink polo shirt with the store logo. He says, “Good day, ma’am,” as York goes up to the counter.

“Good day to you,” she says. “Where’s Mr. Laghari?”

He looks at each of them. “Good day to all of you.”

York says, “Yes, thanks for your courtesy. Where is Mr. Laghari?”

A nod. “Help you?”

“Vihan Laghari, where is he?”

The man keeps smiling. “Can I help?” he says.

Sanchez says, “Looks like we’ve got a language problem here, boss.”

She swears to herself and then sees a photo of the owner in a frame nearby, along with a woman and his two children.

“Here,” she says, picking up the photo, holding it in front of the man. “Where are they?”

She motions to the rear of the store, and then outside, and the man vigorously nods. “Ah, Vihan, he’s gone.”

“Gone where?”

“Gone home,” the man says, still smiling. “To Mumbai.”

Huang says, “The store owner leaves with his family, and there’s one guy left behind. Doesn’t sound good, boss.”

Then Sanchez moves in next to her, flashes his leather wallet with his CID badge, and says, “Police. Got that? Police?”

The man isn’t smiling anymore, and York says, “Sanchez, what the hell are you doing?”

“My job,” he shoots back. “You should try it sometime.”

Not fair, but Sanchez thinks of the times back in the LAPD when he came up against people like this clerk who smiled a lot and pretended to know just a few words of English. More than two hundred languages are spoken in his home state of California, and in investigating cases, Sanchez has run into everything from Albanian to Urdu and has no patience to wait for an interpreter.

He goes around the counter, still holding his badge out like he’s facing a vampire with a cross, and the guy shuffles back, lifts up his hands, and York says, “Knock it off, Sanchez. Get your ass back over here.”