Last Look

by Mariah Stewart

  What?

  She closed her eyes, knowing damned well what she’d wish for. She’d wish she could go back in time to 4 P.M. last Friday afternoon, and then instead of letting her friends talk her into going to a barbecue for a retiring agent, she’d go home to that book she’d been planning to read.

  But no. When her fellow agents gathered around the door to her cubicle and harassed her, she gave in.

  “Honestly, Dorsey, you live like a hermit. You need to get out once in a while.”

  “Come on, Dorse. Just for an hour or two. It’ll do you good to have a little fun. You deserve a night out. You’ve been working nonstop for the past three weeks.”

  “Yeah, well, there was that little matter of Hector Rodriguez and his buddy, Jon Mattson, and that young girl they kidnapped,” she’d reminded them dryly.

  “Hey, just for a while, okay?”

  “Yeah, come with us now, or we’ll follow you home and make rude noises outside your apartment until you cave in. Come along quietly, Agent Collins, and no one will get hurt.”

  And no one did, but me…

  Things had been just swell until sometime after ten when He walked in.

  With Maddy Chambers, an agent just transferred from San Francisco, and Wilbur, the dog he’d shared with Dorsey.

  He was Davison Everett Kane Haldeman.

  Jesus, Dorsey chastised herself, with a name like that, she should have known.

  It was bad enough he’d brought along the woman he’d left Dorsey for, knowing there was a good chance she’d be there, but the bastard had the nerve to bring Wilbur.

  Up until then, she’d been mourning the loss of the dog almost as much as she’d been mourning the loss of the guy. But damn that Wilbur, fickle mutt that he was. His heart always did belong to whoever held the treat box. And these days, all the treats were in Maddy’s hands, along with the brown leather leash Dorsey had picked up on the way home, the day Davis had called to tell her he was bringing home a dog he’d seen sleeping in a vacant lot three days in a row.

  It had been hard enough, watching the flirtation in the office once word had gotten out that Davis had moved out on Dorsey-taking Wilbur. (“Hey, I was the one who found him. He goes with me.”) Harder still to maintain a professional demeanor when she had to work with either Davis or Maddy. But she’d drawn the line at socializing with them.

  Dorsey tossed back another long swig of beer and questioned her ability to make sound decisions in her personal life. What in the name of God had she been thinking when she’d let Davis move in with her? And more recently, whatever had possessed her to throw caution to the wind on Friday night and hit on Scott Murphy, the new prosecutor from the state’s attorney’s office?

  God, she cringed whenever she thought about it.

  Not that he’d been a bad guy, or anything. He was nice enough-too nice, actually-when she found herself the next morning hung over and embarrassed in his apartment.

  Scott had compounded her humiliation by sending her flowers and repeatedly assuring her-and anyone else who’d listen-that absolutely nothing had happened; she’d merely passed out on his sofa and he’d let her sleep it off right where she’d slumped.

  God, what ever possessed me…?

  She leaned forward, her arms resting on her knees, and watched dark clouds roll in and lightning move across the sky. Maybe if I sit here long enough, it’ll strike me.

  If nothing else, she knew, she should go back inside and return his call. Thank him for the flowers, at the very least. She owed him that much. The roses had set him back a pretty penny. She could at least thank him for his thoughtfulness.

  She took a swig and wondered if she’d ever make the call.

  The humidity continued to rise by the minute, the sultry air thick in her nostrils. The closeness made her slightly claustrophobic. She’d be infinitely more comfortable in the apartment, but she just couldn’t bring herself to go back inside. It was too quiet. Too empty. Too lonely.

  She watched a jagged spear of lightning stab at a grove of trees and thought, God, I am pathetic.

  When she finally did go back in, she stayed only as long as it took her to grab another beer. She twisted off the lid and it lifted with a soft pop. She dropped the lid on the counter and went back to the balcony. The rain was just beginning to fall with a few fat drops here and there.

  Maybe she should look for another place. One that had no memories, good or bad. Sort of like starting over.

  Damn it, she didn’t want to start over. She’d been here for six years. She loved this apartment. It had taken her days to find it when she first moved to Florida, freshly divorced and living alone for the first time in her life, focused solely on her career. The apartment was perfect: a big airy bedroom and bathroom, large living room with a small dining area at one end, and a nice eat-in kitchen. A balcony with a view of the lake, and some gorgeous sunsets. Good parking, convenient location, decent rent. Pool, gym, and spa, though she never used those amenities.

  No, damn it, she wasn’t giving up her perfect apartment just because the man she’d recently shared it with had turned out to be a perfect asshole.

  Sooner or later, the last trace of him would fade and she’d be comfortable here again.

  She wondered wryly if the psychic in that little stucco house down on Lakeview had any experience with exorcisms.

  She was only half kidding.

  She drained the bottle and set it next to the two others on the table and leaned over the rail, debating whether or not to go in for another. She’d needed a good buzz the night before-and the one before that-to get to sleep. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw that moment when he walked in with her dog, Maddy, clinging to his arm, and everything had gone white before her eyes.

  The rest of the night was a blur, which was probably just as well.

  The front pocket of her jeans began to ring. She pulled out her phone and checked the caller ID. She was more than a little surprised to see a Virginia number displayed.

  This was a call she should probably take.

  “Collins.”

  “Dorsey, Steven Decker.”

  The SAC she’d worked for after graduating from the academy.

  “Hey.” She brightened, happy in spite of herself to hear his voice. He’d been a great boss, fair and smart and always accessible. She’d missed him. It had been what, two years since they’d last been in touch? “It’s good to hear your voice.”

  “Yours, too. Listen, Dorsey, I wish this call was strictly social, I’d love to catch up, but there’s something that’s come to my attention that I think you need to know.”

  “Make it good news, please.”

  “Wish I could, but I’m afraid there’s no way to clean this up.” His voice was sober, serious.

  Not a good sign.

  “What?” She frowned and lowered herself onto one of the chairs, a bad feeling snaking its way around her insides.

  “I just caught a report that was coming in from HQ. Case in Georgia I thought you should know about.”

  “Go on,” she said cautiously. It wasn’t like him to hedge.

  “The body of a woman was found a couple of weeks ago. The ME’s best guess is she’d been dead less than eight hours.”

  “Cause of death?”

  “From the preliminary report, looks like multiple stab wounds to the torso, exsanguination.”

  “Sexual assault?”

  “Not sure.”

  “O-kay…” She dragged out the word. And I need to know this because…?

  It wasn’t as if she had no corpses of her own to deal with. Georgia wasn’t her territory, so what was Decker’s point?

  Decker sighed. “The woman had no identification on her, so the locals faxed her description to other agencies in the surrounding area hoping someone would be able to match her to a missing persons report.”

  “No TV, no newspaper reports?”

  “Nothing. The body was found on Shelter Island, which is about as big as your
thumb, and is just an inch south of the line separating South Carolina and Georgia. No local paper. Nearest city is Savannah.” He cleared his throat. “The police in Deptford-Georgia, right over the border-had been sitting on a report that appeared to be a match. Seems a woman had come in to the station a few weeks back, said her roommate had been missing since the night before. Said they always kept in touch with each other throughout the night-both of them are working girls-so when the girl didn’t return by morning, the roommate knew something was wrong. I got the feeling the Deptford cops didn’t invest a lot of time looking for her-hookers come and hookers go. The roommate apparently had gone in to talk to the cops several times, but not much was done. No APBs, no mention in the news, nothing.”

  “And…?” Dorsey felt impatience rise within her chest.

  “And…I’ll cut to the chase. The victim has been positively identified as Shannon Randall.”

  “Not possible.” Dorsey felt herself relax. This had nothing to do with her after all. “Shannon Randall died in 1983. The state of South Carolina executed her killer, remember? This has to be a mistake, Decker.”

  “Shannon Randall’s family was notified, Dorsey. Her sister went to the morgue and identified her. It’s Shannon.”

  “Someone’s playing a nasty hoax on them. Not funny.”

  “The dental records match. Fingerprints from the body matched fingerprints on items from Shannon ’s room that her mother had kept all these years. They’re running DNA from the hairbrush the mother sent down. The results won’t be back from the lab for at least a week, you know how that goes. But the sister was positive once she saw the birthmarks. The body is definitely that of Shannon Randall.”

  “It has to be a mistake,” she insisted, a buzzing starting inside her head.

  “If a mistake was made, it was made in 1983,” he said softly.

  “If this is true…” She shook her head, swallowed hard. “If this is true…if this is really Shannon Randall…the Shannon Randall…”

  She took a deep breath, blew it out again, still trying to gather her thoughts.

  “If this is true, who’s going to tell my father?”

  “Well, we were hoping you could give us a hand with that…”

  The ringing phone sounded so far away, farther still if one pulled a pillow over one’s head.

  Which is what Special Agent Andrew Shields had done in an effort to muffle the incessant noise. Finally, recognizing the futility of his efforts, he rolled out from under the pillow and felt along the bedside table for his cell phone.

  He blinked several times to clear his vision. He picked up his watch and blinked again. It was barely five in the morning. There was only one person who’d be calling him this early. And odds were, it wasn’t going to be a social call.

  “Shields.”

  A cheery voice greeted him. “Good morning, Andrew.”

  He knew it. John Mancini. His boss. Andrew sat up and ran a hand over his face.

  “Morning, John.”

  “How’s it going?”

  “Not bad, for the middle of the night.”

  “Oh, did I wake you?”

  “Very funny.” Andrew covered a yawn.

  “So I was looking over the assignments last night, and I noticed you’re working on the Gilchrist case.”

  “Right.”

  “I need you somewhere else.”

  Andrew waited. He’d been half-expecting this. The Gilchrist case wasn’t exactly low profile, and he knew several of the other agents working the case were less than happy when he’d been assigned to join them. Less than happy? Who was he kidding? A couple of them looked downright pissed to see him show up on the job that first day.

  Andrew wasn’t sure he could blame them.

  “Andy?”

  “Yeah-I’m listening.”

  “I need you to pack for maybe a week.”

  “Where am I going?”

  “ Shelter Island, Georgia, to start…”

  “What’s there?” Andy asked.

  “A public-relations nightmare, if what I’m hearing is true.” John sighed.

  “What’s this all about?”

  “It’s about a twenty-four-year-old case that just came back to life.”

  “Want to fill me in?”

  “In 1983, the Bureau got a call to lend a hand with an investigation in Hatton, South Carolina. One of the daughters of the local preacher had gone missing two days earlier, and all indications were that she’d been murdered by a young guy she knew from town. The Bureau sent a team with one of its up-and-comers-Matt Ranieri-to lead the investigation.”

  “Ranieri. He’s the guy on TV every time there’s a big case ongoing. He’s like Mr. Crime on the talk show circuit.”

  “Right. After the Randall case-that was her name, Shannon Randall-Ranieri landed a lot of TV gigs.” John cleared his throat. “Anyway, the young kid was arrested, the case went to trial even though the body had never been found-revolutionary down there in that day-and the kid was convicted on circumstantial evidence.”

  “What evidence?”

  “A shirt covered with her blood was found under the seat of his car, along with her school assignment book, and an eyewitness saw him driving her out of town. She was never seen again.”

  “And the boy’s explanation?”

  “The kid admitted he picked her up that afternoon, but said she was bloody when she got into his car, that someone had worked her over, and he’d given her the shirt to wipe her face on.”

  “He say who beat her up?”

  “He maintained he asked, but she refused to tell him. Says he drove her to a park, she went into the ladies’ room and cleaned up, and then he drove her home. Says she asked to get out a few blocks from home, so he let her.”

  “And the cops didn’t believe him.”

  “They had a witness who said otherwise.”

  “Who was the witness?” Andrew asked.

  “A friend of the girl’s. Said the guy had a big crush on Shannon, was hanging around her all the time but Shannon wouldn’t give him the time of day. You know the rest.”

  “So where’s the problem? You had an arrest and a conviction…” Andrew stopped and thought for a moment, then said, “Let me guess. There’s DNA evidence to prove his innocence and he’s getting out.”

  “No, and there will be no getting out for him,” John told him. “He was executed back in ’91.”

  “So what’s the deal?”

  “The deal is, we just got word that a body found in Georgia has been positively identified as Shannon Randall’s.”

  “The vic whose body was never found?”

  “Right.”

  “So great, case closed.”

  “Not quite,” John said. “The body had only been dead for maybe eight hours.”

  “What?” Andrew frowned. “How can that be?”

  “That’s what we’re sending you down there to find out.”

  Andrew hesitated, then said, “John, if this is true, if this is Shannon Randall, this could become a high-profile case.”

  “Not could,” John corrected him calmly. “Will.”

  “So, don’t you think you’d rather assign someone else?”

  “If I wanted to assign someone else, I’d have called someone else,” John said coolly.

  “This could be national news.”

  “Say it, Andy. Say it once, and get it over with.”

  “Look, I’m just back from leave.” He wanted to keep going, but the words stuck in throat.

  “I know that. Go on.”

  “You’re going to make me say it?”

  “Damn right I am.” John sounded angry.

  “I’m just saying, a Shields may not be the best man for the job. After everything that happened last year-”

  “I will tell you this one more time, and if I ever have to say it again, I’ll fire your ass on the spot. I never want to have this conversation with you again, understand?” Without waiting for a response, John sai
d, “You are not your brother. Many families have a black sheep. Brendan was yours. He betrayed everyone who loved him. His family. His friends. The Bureau. But-and this is the important part, so listen good-you are not Brendan. You are not responsible for what he did, and you are not expected to pay for his sins. If anyone in the Bureau thinks otherwise, I want to know who, because I will personally straighten out his or her ass. Are we clear on that?”

  “Yes, sir,” Andrew said quietly.

  “You’re a damn fine agent, Andy. I have full confidence in you. This case is going to blow up in our faces unless we get to the bottom of it real fast. It’s most likely going to blow up anyway. We had a hot-shot agent pushing for the death penalty and a jury that was happy to give it to him. The Randall family was well-known and highly respected in town, and the family of Eric Beale was not. Dad and mom reportedly were drunks, dad had been arrested for beating up the wife and kids on more than one occasion. Older brother served time for assault. The kid who went to jail had apparently had a run-in with the nephew of the police chief’s wife the week before.”

  “So back then, it almost didn’t matter if he was guilty or not.”

  “Well, that was then, this is now. It matters. I want to know the truth. I want to know what happened to this girl, and how.” John paused, then added, “Did I mention that Shannon had apparently been making her living as a prostitute all these years?”

  “Ah, no. I think you left that part out.” Andrew swung his legs over the side of the bed. “They’re sure it’s her? They’re positive?”

  “Positive.”

  “Shit.”

  “My thoughts exactly.”

  “So when do I leave?”

  “This morning. I want you there before noon. I don’t know how long before the press gets wind of this, so you’re going to have to move fast. Go over the original file with a fine-tooth comb and find out what went wrong. Figure out where this girl’s been all these years, and why no one knew she was still alive. And then, after you’ve done all that-”

  “I’m going to have to solve the case,” Andrew finished the sentence. “Who killed Shannon Randall, and why.”

  “You’re pretty good at this, you know.”

  “Hey, I’m a special agent with the FBI. You can’t put much over on me.” Andrew smiled. “By the way, who’s working with me on this?”