The Summer House(61)

On the scene are two brown-and-white cruisers from the Sullivan County Sheriff’s Department and two fire engines from the town’s volunteer fire department. About a half dozen firefighters wearing bright-yellow turnout gear and helmets are wetting down what’s left of the house, which is a smoldering, smoking pile of collapsed wood, shingles, and broken windows.

She parks the rental behind the nearest cruiser and steps out, the smell of smoke thick and disappointing. Even with Pierce next to her, and quickly followed by Huang and Sanchez, never has she felt so utterly alone. Even doing traffic stops along the highways of Virginia, back in her state trooper days, she was never entirely by herself if something went south. If she got into something desperate or dangerous back then, help was one quick radio broadcast away.

Not here.

This entire place is against her and the CID team.

Two men and a woman dressed in the brown and tan of the Sullivan County Sheriff’s Department are talking to an older man who has ASST. CHIEF lettered on the back of his coat, and then the woman—Sheriff Williams, of course—breaks away and comes over, a very happy and satisfied smile on her face.

Even with the thick Georgia heat, York is taken aback by the confidence in that woman’s smile.

She’s getting away with it, whatever the hell it is, and she’s not showing any fear or concern.

“Morning, folks,” she says, stepping closer. “Hell of a thing, isn’t it? A nice old historical home like this burning down. A real pity.”

York shakes her head. “Arson?”

A shrug. “Could be. We’ll have to wait for the fire inspectors to figure it out. Might take a month or two.”

One by one, the other members of her squad line up next to her, tired, beat down, and now seeing another piece of evidence literally go up in smoke.

“How convenient,” York says.

Sanchez says, “Yeah, damn convenient.”

Something seems to crackle in the air. The sheriff steps in closer, and her two deputies do the same. Williams’s face seems to change, from the open cheeriness of earlier to something hard and dark, and then she changes again.

Smiles.

She reaches out, touches the damaged hood of the Ford. “Wow, will you look at this. Recent collision damage. Looks like you hit something hard.”

York keeps quiet. A piece of the shattered roof of the house collapses, causing a flare-up and another billow of smoke. The sheriff says, “You know, funny thing, the other night Randy Poplar, he runs a private shooting club over on the north side of town, he reported that somebody ran into his pipe gate. Dented it all to hell.”

The sheriff rubs the hood of the car. “His pipe gate is painted white, and look what we got here. White paint scrapes. Damn coincidence, I’m sure.”

“I’m sure,” York says.

“Still, to be certain, I might want to investigate further,” and again her tone changes, becoming slow, threatening. “Seize this vehicle. Match the paint scrapings here. Hell, the more I look into this, there might be charges down the road. Know what I mean? Failure to report an accident. Leaving the scene of an accident. Causing an accident resulting in excess of a thousand dollars in damages. Lots of potential criminal liabilities out there.”

The smile pops back. “But, Agent York, I hear you folks are being called back to Virginia. Packing up and leaving. Wrapping up your work here. Looks like the only problem you’ll have is facing the rental company when you get back to the Savannah airport.”

York smiles back. “Sorry, Sheriff, you’ve heard wrong.”

That startles the sheriff. Good.

“What did you say?”

York says, “You heard wrong. We’re not leaving. Not today, not tomorrow. We’re leaving when our job is done. No matter what burns down, who disappears, or who flies back to Mumbai, we’re staying on this case. If you’ve forgotten, we’re the US Army, and we don’t back down.”

Williams makes the slightest shake of her head, and the two strong-looking and armed deputies move as one to back her up.

The sheriff says, “This county ain’t for you.”

York heads back to the open door of her car.

“Oh, you’re wrong, Sheriff,” York says. “I love it here. It’s a great, charming place. You know, when I retire, I might even move down here and find a little place to live. Get used to it, Sheriff. My squad and I are going to be here for a long time to come.”





Chapter 54



BACK AT THE Route 119 Motel and Coffee Shop, York brakes hard, taking up two spaces and not really giving a shit. The two other sedans pull in, and she takes out the key to Major Cook’s room, walks in, and— The place is clean.

Fresh linens on the bed.

Carpet cleaned.

His suitcase on the floor next to the door.

She goes over to the trash bin.

Empty as well.

She clenches a fist, rubs it against her forehead.

What did Major Cook say, just before he left?

There’s a piece of paper, a note. From a local newspaper reporter. Peggy something or other. She wants an interview. Talk to her. She’ll be your local intelligence agency.

She turns, and Sanchez, Pierce, and Huang are inside the room.

“Quick,” she says. “Anybody know where they dump the trash for this place?”