The Summer House(8)
I put the phone in my lap. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, Connie. She agreed to meet with us. That doesn’t equal cooperation.”
Out by the horizon, lightning flashes, again and again.
Chapter 6
SPECIAL AGENT CONNIE YORK pulls the rented Ford sedan into an empty parking spot next to a Chevrolet sedan painted in the brown and white colors of the Sullivan County Sheriff’s Department. Once they left the interstate and got onto a narrow state road, sporadically lined with pig or dairy farms, mobile homes, and one-story houses, a phrase from a Talking Heads song came to her: And you may find yourself / Living in a shotgun shack. The only bits of color were the campaign signs for races, from US Senate to county coroner.
She switches off the engine and looks across the lot to a small brick building containing three bays for the trucks belonging to the Sullivan Volunteer Fire Department. Two more buildings complete the cluster. A two-story, white-pillared brick one is topped with a pitched shingle roof and a clock tower, and wide concrete steps lead up to its double glass doors. Behind the taller building is a wide, freestanding, brick-and-concrete one-story surrounded by a high fence with razor wire curled along the top. Signs announce that these adjoining structures hold everything governmental for Sullivan County: the courthouse, the sheriff’s department, and the jail. But there are no ramps.
She says, “Looks like the Americans with Disabilities Act hasn’t gotten this far, sir.”
In a level voice, Major Cook says, “Who’s disabled?”
She feels her face warm as she removes the keys. “Sorry, sir. No offense.”
“None taken,” he says, undoing his seat belt and getting the door open. “I’ll make it work. Come along. We don’t want to keep the sheriff waiting.”
Connie shoulders her leather bag and walks with her boss as he goes up the steps, leaning heavily on his plain metal cane. The humid air hits her like a soft blanket, nearly smothering her.
At the top of the stairs she looks across the street, to a small green park with benches and a statue of a Confederate soldier standing in frozen guard. There’s a hardware store, a laundromat, a small restaurant, a barber, a women’s hairstylist, and a few other one-story brick buildings, including a post office. A few residents sitting on park benches are staring at them.
She looks at her boss, grasping one railing with a strong hand, leaning on the cane, face red. His upper body is muscular, and his black hair is trimmed short, with a few flecks of white along the sides. Jeremiah Cook is thirty-five, and before his Humvee was struck by an IED in Afghanistan, she knew, he was a homicide detective in the NYPD and a member of the Army Reserves. Connie doesn’t know the whole story, but she’s heard the NYPD offered him a desk job, and he told them to go to hell, and despite his leg injury, he was able to transfer from the Reserves to regular Army. Oh, and along the way, he lost his wife, who divorced him.
Even with the painful struggle on his lean, honest face, Connie suddenly thinks that Mrs. Cook was a moron to divorce this man.
She goes to the double glass doors, opens one, and is surprised to see a woman there, waiting to meet them.
The woman is in her fifties, a bit stout but fit, wearing black sneakers, blue jeans, and a dark green polo shirt that has an embroidered department badge on the left side and “Sheriff Williams” in white script on the right side. On a wide leather belt is a holstered pistol, two spare magazines, and a set of handcuffs, along with a clipped-on gold sheriff’s badge. She looks past Connie and says, “Is that Major Cook?”
“Yes, ma’am, it is,” she says. “I’m Special Agent York, with his team.”
The sheriff smiles, revealing deep dimples, and offers her hand. Her face is worn but attractive, and her thick black hair is cut short. “I’m sure you’ve figured out who I am,” she says, and in a low voice adds, “What happened to the major? Was it the damn war? Which one?”
Connie says, “Afghanistan,” and then the sheriff bustles past her to shake hands with Major Cook, and they all go down a dark and cool hallway.
The office is large, with tall windows overlooking a closely trimmed lawn and another parking area with two more cruisers, three pickup trucks, and a Ford SUV. Sheriff Williams sits behind her desk, which is large and covered with neatly organized file folders and a white legal pad.
Connie takes the left leather-upholstered chair while her boss takes the right. There’s a small round conference table at the rear, next to a leather couch and coffee table, which is stacked high with police magazines. Connie reaches into her shoulder bag and takes out a yellow legal pad, thinking, White versus yellow. We’ll see who takes better notes.
“Good trip, both of you?”
Cook says, “It was just fine.”
The bookcase is filled, and so are the walls. Plaques and photos line every inch, and Connie recognizes the sheriff posing with important men and women, including two FBI directors, two presidents, a vice president, and three senators from Georgia.
A player, she thinks. She loves her politics.
The sheriff appears in all but one photo, and in three shots she’s wearing an Army uniform, smiling and standing in front of a US flag, shaking hands with superior officers. Either Army Reserves or Georgia National Guard, Connie thinks.
The outlier photo is black-and-white, of a stern-looking man in a gray suit holding a homburg hat in his big hands and standing on the steps of what looks to be the US Capitol Building.