The Cornwalls Are Gone (Amy Cornwall #1) - James Patterson Page 0,75
in a double homicide yesterday afternoon in Three Rivers. Is that true?”
Rosaria stops rubbing her wrists. “I’m not aware of that information.”
“Really?”
Scritch-scritch comes the sound of the pen rubbing against his head. “Three Rivers is about ninety miles from here. Not much of a drive. And we received a BOLO this morning about Captain Cornwall. Before I spoke to you, I talked to Miss Chambers who works at the library. I showed her a photo of Captain Cornwall. Miss Chambers readily identified her.”
“That’s…interesting.”
“Yep.”
He lowers his pen and says, “I also chatted up a police captain over there in Three Rivers. You can imagine they’re quite busy, investigating a double homicide. It seems your Captain Cornwall drove all the way from Virginia, to a tiny town that hardly anybody has heard of, to assault that house, kill two well-armed men, and then leave, with another person in tow. Pretty unusual, don’t you think?”
Rosaria says, “I can’t think of anything more unusual that I’ve heard of lately.”
Santiago picks up his pen, starts scratching the other side of his head, just above his left ear, where there’s a line of faint brown stubble, looking like a farmer’s field of corn after harvesttime. Rosaria is trying to war-game what’s going to happen here, what she’s going to tell her boss, and most of all, how to extricate herself from Victoria without being subject to more interviews, more interrogations.
She needs to get out and get working.
“Another unusual bit of information,” Santiago continues, “is learning that yesterday afternoon, another Army officer was found at the scene. Asking questions. Going into the house. Looking at the crime scene.”
He pauses with the scritch-scritch. “Her name was not available to the Three Rivers police captain, but he’s pretty sure she was an Army cop. From the Criminal Investigation Command. That’s your unit, isn’t it?”
Damn. “Yes, it is.”
Finally, Detective Santiago says, “Special Agent Vasquez.”
“Still here, sir.”
“Just so you know, I have two nephews currently deployed overseas, one in Qatar, the other in Afghanistan. My father did his thirty in the Navy. One of my uncles died in Vietnam. My family has deep love and respect for the military.”
“Thank you,” she says.
He slowly and carefully puts his notebook and the pen that he’s been using as a scratcher back into his pocket. “Is it safe to say that you believe Captain Cornwall has left Victoria…for parts currently unknown?”
That isn’t exactly 100 percent, but Rosaria isn’t going to correct him.
“That’s a very insightful observation.”
“I see.” He rubs his hands together and says, “The only crime I see here has been an assault.”
Rosaria says, “I don’t intend to press charges.”
Santiago shakes his head. “That’s not your choice, Special Agent Vasquez. Assault is a felony, and we don’t need your say-so to proceed toward an investigation and an eventual indictment.”
“I see.”
There’s a quiet moment, and Rosaria is wondering what the detective is thinking, but he doesn’t keep her in suspense long.
“If, however, you don’t intend to stay here in my city, such that it would be a chore and challenge to contact you for further interviews and questions, then this case might just quietly die away. Do you see what I mean?”
“I certainly do.”
She rubs at her sore wrists one more time.
He stands up and says, “So excuse me for being blunt, Special Agent Vasquez, but get the hell out of Victoria and never return.”
Rosaria tries to hide her relief at Santiago’s words.
“On it, Detective,” she says, standing up as well.
“Fantastic,” he says. “By the way, thank you for your service.”
CHAPTER 76
THE DRIVE along the Gulf of Mexico slowly descends into a monotonous vision of various interstates, interspersed with long stretches of rugged driving along state roads or country lanes that parallel the famed American highway system. I switch from state roads to interstates to avoid tollbooths and their surveillance equipment, either closed-circuit cameras or suspicious troopers sitting in idling police cruisers. I’m also being tracked by the evil ones who took my family.
My poor filthy Jeep Wrangler is now bearing license plates from Mississippi, representing the state we’re passing through. Earlier she had on plates from Louisiana, and those were dumped off a concrete bridge spanning a muddy stream in a small town once I crossed the state line.
I’m not under any illusion that changing out the plates will save me, but I’m just hoping it will provide me some cover over the next few hours, as I head into Florida with my quiet Archie, who still hasn’t uttered a word, even after