The Summer House(75)
“Uh…”
A heavyset waitress in a stained pink uniform comes over, and before she can say anything, Williams holds up a hand. “Ah, just coffee. Black. And put it on Corny’s tab. I’m sure he won’t mind.”
The waitress shuffles away, and Williams takes off her campaign-style hat, puts it on the padded seat next to her, and says, “You know, Corny, I don’t know how anyone can start a day with something so filling and heavy. I put away a breakfast like that, I’d be snoozing for half a day.”
Slate doesn’t say anything, but his face is ashen, and Williams says, “But, if something is in front of me, I can’t stand the temptation. ’Scuse me.” Williams picks up a sausage link, takes a healthy bite. “Yum. Boy, this is something, isn’t it? Sure doesn’t taste like one of those tofu or turkey sausages. It’s the real deal.”
Slate says, “Er…”
She finishes the sausage link, picks up another one from Slate’s breakfast plate, and takes another pleasing bite. “Corny, just what in the hell are you up to?”
“My job, Sheriff. You know how it is.”
She shakes her head. “No, I don’t know how it is. What I do know is that you went behind my back last night and made some sort of criminal plea deal with that Sergeant Jefferson. Corny, why in hell did you do that without clearing it with me?”
The flush on his face deepens. “Ah, Sheriff, with all due respect, I am the senior law enforcement officer in this county. I really don’t have to, ah, clear anything with you.”
She eyes him coldly as she chews on the sausage link. Slate stays quiet. Williams reaches out and takes the last link off his plate. “Corny, with all due respect, do I really need to reaffirm the facts of life for you? Do I? Remind you of the times my boys drove you home from the American Legion or the Trackside Roadhouse when you had too much to drink? Or the time that your nephew Bobby Tim beat the crap out of his wife, a real embarrassing mess for you, and I took care of it? Or other times we helped out your office in finding last-minute evidence that let you prosecute cases that were dead-enders?”
Slate picks up a forkful of scrambled eggs, changes his mind, puts the fork back down on his plate. “Ah, that’s all in the past now, isn’t it? The truth is, I don’t have to clear anything with you now, Sheriff. What happened is the staff sergeant agreed to plead guilty at the hearing tomorrow. That gets that case out of here, saves time and money for the county. Everybody wins.”
Williams takes her time chewing the last of his sausage link. “Win? What kind of win is that? Those two other Rangers go free.”
“But you know there’s no forensic evidence linking them to the crimes. It all goes back to the staff sergeant. He’s taking the blame, and it’s still a win.”
She chews some more. “I don’t see it that way.”
“Well, I do, Sheriff.”
“You know what I see? I see you up for reelection next Tuesday, running against that Falconer fella, and you want to crush him. You had the votes, Corny, to win…but that wasn’t enough. You want to go into Tuesday’s election with this high-profile case behind you. The case of The Summer House murders. Impress the voters. Make it a landslide instead of a decent win. Make up for all your shortcomings.”
Slate lowers his eyes.
Williams says, “Hell, that’s not a bad strategy, Corny, but you should have cleared it with me first. You know it, and I know it. But you had to go rogue, go off the reservation, and I can’t—and won’t—stand for that. Pretty soon I’ll have to square accounts with you, and I warn you, it won’t be pretty.”
He lifts his eyes, looking defiant. “How’s that, Sheriff? Word we get is that when Mason gets elected to the Senate, he’s taking you along to Washington. Good for you—you’re heading out, going to your dream job and place of residence. That means those of us back here, we’re on our own. We need to look out for ourselves. That’s the truth.”
She picks up a napkin, wipes the grease off her fingers. The truth is the truth, and she has hitched her hopes and dreams to Representative Mason Conover, doing what it takes to get him elected to the Senate—even putting up with his whiny phone calls these past few days—but why admit it to this clown?
“Aw, hell, Corny, what makes you think that? Sure, I might be leaving Sullivan County if the congressman wants me to come along after he wins, but I intend to keep my organization in place, humming along, even with me gone. Deputy Lindsay, he’ll be taking my place. Just you wait and see.”
Slate’s eyes widen. “That boy Clark Lindsay? Are you kidding? He’s the one who shot and killed Mrs. Gendron’s dog.”
“The dog charged him.”
“The dog was blind!” Slate says.
“Still, it should have known better,” Williams says, tossing the used napkin on the district attorney’s plate. “Thing is, Corny, if everybody knew their place and stayed in their place, it’d be a better world.”
The waitress from earlier comes over, puts down a white mug of coffee. Williams picks up the coffee cup, gently blows across it.
“Ah,” she says, taking a sip. “Nice and black. Just like our souls, Corny.”
Chapter 68