The Summer House

Chapter 42

Special Agent Connie York is feeling a lot of emotions right at this moment, but the one that secretly pleases her the most is knowing that all these strong and capable men — including Cook and especially Sanchez, who likes to whip out his LAPD background at every opportunity — are giving her 100 percent of their attention.

Pierce stares at the screen. “Fake? It looks pretty real to me, Connie.”

“The Rangers are real, the store owner is real, but this” — and she taps the lower right corner of the screen — “this time stamp, it’s fake. You see what it says? It says 7:40 p.m. Presumably about ten minutes before the killings started, twenty minutes before they were seen leaving The Summer House.”

They are all staring at the white numerals, and Sanchez says, “Sorry, I don’t see it.”

“That’s right,” York says, an edge of triumph in her voice. “Because you’re missing it.”

She moves her finger, taps the area that shows the television set hidden underneath the counter. She plays the video back and forth, back and forth, and on the screen within the screen, there are faint images of a man and two women arguing, and then one woman pushing the man into an in-ground swimming pool.

“That,” York says. “See that?”

Nobody says anything, and from the look in their eyes, they don’t have to.

“Anybody recognize the program?” she asks.

Again, silence.

York takes a deep breath. “It’s one of those reality television shows. This one is on Bravo. It follows a group of rich and spoiled housewives. This particular episode ends with a fight between two women, with one woman pushing the other’s husband into the pool. I went back online, checked the local television listings, and found out when it was aired in this area. Guys... the time stamp’s been played with. The episode showing that fight scene was at 6:40 p.m. last Wednesday night, not at 7:40. The Rangers... maybe they were leaving to go visit that house, maybe even break the arms of the drug dealer. But the timing is off. And somebody did it on purpose.”

She waits.

She runs the video once again, and the four men lean in. She warms inside when Cook says, “My apologies. You did one hell of a good job.”

And he quickly changes the subject.

“Sanchez?”

“Sir,” he says.

“You got into that dog owner’s house with your usual bag of tricks, correct?”

“Yes, sir, I did. No excuse.”

“None needed,” Cook says. “Get back into that bag of tricks. I know what you carry, based on our last trip to Germany. Go on back to all of our rooms, especially room 11. Tell me if you locate any ears or eyes.”

“On it, sir,” he says, and he goes over to the other rental car, opens the trunk, moves things around for a minute or two, and then quickly walks back to the row of doors, holding in his right hand a small black box that has two stubby antennas.

Even in the heat, York feels frozen. Just a minute ago it seemed like everything was done, finished, she and the crew heading back to Quantico in humiliation and disgrace, her Army career crippled. Being called home, following orders, nothing else to do.

Now?

This pure mystery — of whether or not the four Army Rangers murdered a houseful of civilians last week — has now grown darker, more complex.

And more dangerous — no doubt about it.

Sanchez comes back, takes one more look at his device.

“Confirmed, Major,” he says. “We’ve got GSM listening devices in each room, and two in room 11, our workroom. No doubt about it. We’ve been spied on since we got here.”