The Summer House

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.”

Pierce says, “Whatever you’re doing, Sanchez, it’s illegal and it won’t be admissible in any court,” and crap, even Huang jumps in and says, “If your intent is scaring a guy who can’t speak English well, congratulations, you’re doing a great job.”

He ignores them all, sees a pile of receipts, invoices, and other paperwork. All in English, thank you very much, and he starts flipping through the yellow and pink invoices, the other bills from snack suppliers and soft drink distributors, and, yes, yes, right there.

Buried deep in the pile, another envelope with the return address of SULLIVAN DISTRICT ATTORNEY.

The clerk says something in Hindi or whatever, and Sanchez gives him a look, sees the cheery smile and happy face are gone, and there’s the look of one hard man who would probably take him on if there weren’t other people in the store.

He pulls out the sheet of paper within the envelope, gives it a quick glance. The language is almost identical to what he read back in Wendy Gabriel’s house of trash and smells. VIHAN LAGHARI, DBA ROUTE 119 GAS N’ GO, of Sullivan, in and of Sullivan County, is charged with numerous violations of Georgia Code 3-3-23: Furnishing to, purchase of, or possession by persons under 21 years of age of alcoholic beverages; use of false identification; proper identification; dispensing, serving, selling, or handling by persons under 21 years of age in the course of employment; seller’s actions upon receiving false identification; said complaint brought to the District Attorney’s Office by...

Sanchez takes the envelope from his coat pocket that he lifted from the top of Wendy Gabriel’s bureau, pulls out that sheet of paper, turns and holds them both up so Pierce, Huang, and especially York can see them.

“See this?” he says, thrusting out his left hand. “Criminal complaint filed against Wendy Gabriel from the district attorney. Charging her with cruelty to animals.”

And he puts out his right hand. “And this? Criminal complaint filed against this store and its owner, for selling alcohol to minors. Maybe Pierce can tell us later the punishments, but I bet the animal cruelty one would mean the woman’s dog being seized, and here, the store’s liquor license being pulled, which is just as good as shutting it down.”

Sanchez folds up both sheets of paper, returns them to their respective envelopes.

He says, “Agent York, both complaints were brought forth by Sheriff Emma Williams. Get it? And if she’s put you at risk for losing what’s precious to you, what would you do to prevent that?”

Huang says, “Good God. You’d do anything, anything at all.”

Sanchez nods, feeling great, feeling on top of the world.

“Like cooperating in putting out false evidence,” he says.