Last Look

by Mariah Stewart

  “Identification, sir?” he asked.

  “Special Agent Andrew Shields, Special Agent Dorsey Collins,” he said as he pulled out his badge and Dorsey handed over hers. The trooper looked them over and returned them promptly.

  “I’ll clear the way for you,” he told Andrew. “You’re going to have to be careful. We haven’t allowed anyone out of their cars-they’d be trespassing, and we’ve already made it clear we’d arrest anyone caught trespassing-but I don’t know how they’re gonna react when they see someone leaving. You’re likely to be followed, sir.”

  “I can deal with that.”

  “In that case, sir, have a good night.” The trooper walked away, and motioned for the car blocking the entrance to move.

  Andrew slipped past the patrol car and onto the road. Several cars that had been parked began to follow him. He removed his phone from his pocket and used the speed-dial.

  “John, I’m afraid we’re beginning to draw a crowd…”

  14

  The waves licked against the side of the boat, rocking it gently in the wake of a passing cruiser. Matt Ranieri sat on one of the deck chairs and stared out at the setting sun. The bay was quiet tonight, the silence broken by the engine of the occasional boat or a fish breaking the water’s plane. Overhead a heron glided toward its rookery, across the bay a family of swans sought their own shelter.

  “Matt, can I bring you a beer?” the boat’s owner and skipper called from the cabin. “Wine? More coffee?”

  “Nothing, thanks. I’m fine,” he called back.

  Moments later she appeared on deck, a glass of wine in one hand and an unlit candle in the other.

  “I thought a little soft light might be nice.” She placed the candle on the small table. “It’s supposed to have something in it to keep the mosquitoes away.” She smiled. “One could hope.”

  She took a seat in the chair opposite Matt’s and pretended to watch the emerging stars. She was petite and blond-her natural color required more help these days to stay that way, but she didn’t seem to mind-and athletically built. She’d played tennis and field hockey back in school, had excelled at archery and water-skiing, and knew her way around the Chesapeake and the rivers that fed into it like an old bayman. She was tanned even this early in the season, was a gourmet cook, and had been widowed almost as long as Matt had been a widower. She was totally head over heels about Matt and made no bones about it.

  She knew he’d been dating someone named Anna on and off for several years but, as she told Matt, if Anna couldn’t hold his interest, it was her own damned fault. Diane Coleman was in her late fifties, old enough, she told Matt, to make a stand when she wanted something. At this stage of her life, she wanted Matt. Her candor both amused and flattered him, and he’d found himself seeking out her company more and more. Lately, he’d been thinking about making the relationship permanent.

  “So.” She crossed her legs and sipped her wine. “Have you solved your puzzle?”

  “I think so.” He nodded slowly. That he’d told her about the case had surprised him, that he’d actually discussed it with her surprised him even more. “I think I know what went wrong back then. And I know what I have to do.”

  “Good.” She smiled and took another sip. “Where will you start?”

  “I already did,” he told her.

  “That phone call earlier?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you’ll be wanting to head back to shore.”

  “In the morning, yes.”

  “Have you called your daughter?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Matt, you know she’s worried about you.”

  “You’re right.” He took his phone from his pocket and speed-dialed her number.

  “I can go below if you want privacy,” Diane offered, though she made no move to leave.

  “It’s not necessary.” He listened for another few seconds. “She’s not picking up.”

  “Just leave her a message. Let her know you’re okay, let her know what you’re going to do.”

  “Hey, honey. Sorry I missed you. I’m with a friend on her boat, just needed a little time to think things through, hoping to find some answers before the shit hits the fan.” He tried to make a joke, but even to his ears, the joke fell flat. “Anyway, I just didn’t want you to worry. I’ll be in touch.” He paused for a moment, then added, “Love you, Dorse.”

  He closed the phone and slid it back into his shirt pocket.

  “You didn’t tell her what you were going to do,” Diane said pointedly.

  “No. I did not.” He started to repack his notebooks and files into the box that sat on the floor near his feet. “I don’t want her to worry.”

  “Should I be worried?”

  “You’re a big girl.”

  “So’s your daughter. She’s been in the FBI for…how many years? Twelve? She’s hardly a babe in the woods, Matt,” she reminded him.

  “Did you drop anchor here for the night?” He changed the subject without further comment.

  Diane sighed. She got the point. He didn’t want to discuss his next move with his daughter. Diane wouldn’t push. She’d speak her mind, but she wouldn’t push.

  “No. I thought we’d go back to that cove up near the Sassafras again tonight.”

  “Sounds good to me.” He stood and lifted the box. “I’ll take these down below, then come back up and give you a hand.”

  “No need.” She drained her glass and sat it on the table. “I’ve been pulling up anchors by myself for years.”

  He glanced back over his shoulder and wondered if the double meaning had been intentional or if he was just reading something into her comment that wasn’t there. He knew Diane had been on her own for a long time, just as he had been. And, she’d just reminded him, as his daughter had been. He wondered what Dorsey would think of this woman, what she’d say if he told her he was thinking of marrying Diane. He’d never even mentioned Diane’s name to her, and now he couldn’t remember why.

  Just one more thing he hadn’t told Dorsey. He just hoped that he’d get the chance, and that his next move wouldn’t be his last.

  15

  Andrew snapped on the light in his motel room as he came through the door. Outside it was still sunny late afternoon. Inside, with the drapes covering the windows, it was midnight.

  He’d really wanted to push for some time with Franklin Randall, but John suggested he back off for tonight after Andrew filled him in on the interviews with the Randall sisters and Jeff Feeney. John also reminded Andrew that with the press beginning to sniff around, he needed to make sure Dorsey kept a very low profile.

  “Especially now,” John had said.

  “Why especially now?” Andrew had asked, but the question had not been answered.

  “Just tell her to keep her head down for a little while longer.”

  Andrew knew better than to push. If John wanted to say more, he would.

  “What do you want me to do about the reporters?”

  “Talk to them. Sooner, rather than later. Keep everyone under control. Say as little as possible at this point, but make sure everything you say is true. Don’t say anything you’ll need to apologize for later. God knows we’re going to be doing enough backpedaling on this case as it is.”

  “You think maybe you should send someone down to handle this? Maybe someone from PR?”

  “No, you’ll be fine,” John assured him. “Besides, there’s no one who knows what’s going on better than you. I don’t want anyone thinking we’re spinning this. It is what it is.”

  “I’ll type up my reports later tonight and e-mail them in the morning.” Andrew pushed aside one edge of the drapes and peered out through the window. The news vans that had followed him were parked in the lot where their drivers would have clear view of his door. Shit.

  This was the last thing he needed.

  “Listen, John, about Eric Beale’s family…”

  “It’s covered, Andrew.”

&nbs
p; “Something was going on between this Jeff Feeney character and both the brothers. We’re going to need to talk to someone in the family, and soon. Preferably Tim Beale, though if we could track down the mother-”

  “Not yet.”

  Andrew frowned. It wasn’t like John to be evasive when it came to a case one of his agents was working on.

  “When, then?”

  “I’ll let you know. For now, just let me handle them from this end.”

  “All right,” Andrew said slowly. He was feeling sandbagged and he didn’t like it. No point in mentioning it, though. John obviously had an agenda he wasn’t in the mood to discuss.

  “How’s Agent Collins doing?” John changed the subject.

  “Fine. Good.”

  “Think she’d fit in with the rest of the unit?”

  “You thinking about bringing her on?” Andrew watched as one of the cameramen got out of his van and began to chat with a reporter from another station.

  “She’s expressed an interest, and everything I’m hearing about her is good.”

  “Yeah. She’s good, John. Real good. She’d fit in just fine.”

  “Then I’ll have a talk with her when this is all over, see what we can work out. For the time being, just keep her out of the public eye. Any idea how much longer before you’ll be able to wrap this up?”

  “A few more days, at least. We have a picture emerging but it isn’t clear yet.” Andrew filled John in on the theories he and Dorsey had tossed around. “It’s like a big puzzle, and we’re still missing a lot of the pieces.”

  “Sometimes too many possibilities can be worse than too few,” John said, “and I’m referring to the old case as well as the new. That many possible motives, you can make yourself crazy trying to figure it out. Of course, there’s an upside to that, too.”

  “What’s that?”

  “When you get that many people involved, sooner or later someone is bound to step out from the crowd on their own. It doesn’t sound as if any of these people are professional criminals,” John told him. “Sooner or later, someone’s guilt is going to get the best of him. Or her.”

  “I can only hope.” Andrew let the curtain fall back. “So you’ll get back to me on the Beales?”

  “Soon as I have something to tell you,” John assured him. “Good luck with the press. Gotta run.”

  Andrew disconnected the call and dropped the phone on the bed wishing he’d pushed John a little more about the Beale family. But he knew better. When John had something to say, he said it. If he was keeping something to himself, he had a reason and he wouldn’t be sharing that until he was ready.

  He hung his jacket over the back of the chair and debated whether to order a pizza or take a shower. If he called for pizza, chances were there’d be a reporter in his face when he opened the door. For a moment he wished they were still staying at the inn. At least they had room service and the rooms were nicer. This motel room was anonymous, too much like every other motel room he’d ever been in. It made him feel displaced, and he’d had plenty of that over the past year. Now he realized he’d traveled so much just to keep himself moving, to keep from thinking too deeply about too many things. For a while, it had worked.

  Maybe shower first, he thought, then slip out when it was dark. Maybe Dorsey could meet him somewhere. He’d really been enjoying her company these past few days. She was smart. Had a good sense of humor. Took the job seriously. Not to mention the fact that the woman had some depth, and that put her head and shoulders above a lot of the women he’d known. She seemed to have it all. Including, he suspected, scars on her wrists and who knew where else.

  His cell phone rang and he thought-hoped-it might be her.

  “Agent Shields, this is Chief Bowden.”

  “Hey, Chief, how are-”

  “I’m over here at the Randall place, and they got a truckload of reporters out there.” Bowden had no time for pleasantries. “Miz Randall, she’s awfully upset about the whole thing, didn’t know what she should do, so she called me. I personally don’t mind going on out there and talking to those folks, but frankly, I don’t have a damned thing to say to them. I don’t know where y’all are going with this thing. Now, Miz Randall did call the daughters, but they don’t want to speak with the press either right now, so I’m asking you to come on over here and do the talking. I just don’t know what to say.”

  “You’re right not to say anything, except maybe that the FBI is handling the investigation, Chief. Thanks for the heads-up,” Andrew said. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  “’Preciate it if you’d hurry.”

  “Ten minutes, tops,” Andrew promised. “Oh, Chief? You can tell Mrs. Randall that I’ll be wanting to speak with her husband after the press conference. I’d appreciate you setting that up for me.”

  “Do what I can,” the chief replied. “He’s not in a good way right now, from what I understand.”

  So much for a shower and time to type up some reports for John, Andrew thought as he grabbed his jacket from the chair. He knew he looked a little shopworn, but there wasn’t much he could do about that. He wasn’t as adept at speaking to the media as some others in the unit were, and he’d assumed that John would send in someone from the Bureau who was proven at handling the PR aspects of the job since this was such a big case. But John had declined that as quickly as he’d declined to discuss the Beales. Andrew would have only the ten-minute drive from the motel to the Randalls’ to figure out what he wanted to say and the best way to say it. He just hoped the network hadn’t picked up the story.

  The last thing he wanted was to face any of the reporters who’d covered the story about Brendan. They’d be compelled to ask about that situation, and Andrew wasn’t ready to talk about it in public. Hell, he could count on one hand the number of times he’d spoken about it in private. Once or twice with his sister, Mia, and once with Dorsey, and that had barely skimmed the surface. He still wasn’t able to face his cousins Connor and Aidan. The tragedy had left a hole inside him big enough for a small child to walk through.

  He knew he should call Dorsey, but decided to do that from the car. He grabbed his phone and headed outside, where he was promptly approached by several reporters.

  “I’m on my way to the Randalls’ home.” He held up both hands as if warding off their questions. “If you’d like to meet me there, you’ll hear everything I have to say on the matter.”

  Ignoring their protests, Andrew got into his car and locked the doors. He dialed Dorsey’s number, knowing she wasn’t going to like what he was going to say.

  “Hey,” he said when she answered, her voice sounding somewhat groggy. “Did I wake you?”

  “Yeah. But it’s okay.” She yawned quietly. “Sorry. You thinking about trying to sneak out past the gathering crowd for a bite?”

  “Too late for that,” he told her. “Listen, I got a call from Chief Bowden. He’s asked me to come to the Randalls’ to deal with the press.”

  “You’re going now?” Suddenly she was wide awake. “You’re on your way?”

  “Yes. Look, I’m sorry, but you know we have to keep any involvement on your part from becoming public knowledge.”

  “It’s your case,” she said somewhat stiffly.

  “That’s not what this is about. No one wants a camera picking up your face so that everyone in the Bureau knows you’re here. I wouldn’t leave you out if I didn’t have to.” He paused. “I hope you know that.”

  “Will you give me a call when you get back?”

  “Of course. But you know I wouldn’t do this if I didn’t have to, right?” He wanted to hear her say it. For some reason, it was important to him to know that she didn’t think he was deliberately cutting her out.

  “I do.” She sighed. “Yeah, I understand. You did the right thing. And it’s not your fault.”

  “It’s no one’s fault, Dorsey. It’s just what is right now. But as soon as I get back, I’ll fill you in on whatever I can drag out of Fra
nklin.”

  “You’re going to talk to Franklin?”

  “I’m thinking a little quid pro quo here. I’ll handle the press for them, but only if Franklin agrees to talk to me after.”

  “Why not make it before? What if he weasels out?”

  “I’m not going to let him do that. They’re going to understand up front that he talks to me, or I don’t talk to the press for them. Which means either they talk-which you and I both know, no one in that family wants to do-or they’ll have reporters camped on their front lawn until they do.”

  “So I guess I should tune in the eleven o’clock news to get the official version.”

  “I’m hoping to be back before then,” he told her. “I promise to fill you in on everything.”

  “Anything I can do?”

  “Well, you could sneak out and pick up pizza and some beer after the news vans leave.”

  “I’d be glad to, but by the time you get back here, the beer will be warm and the pizza will be cold.”

  “Hey, anyone who can’t deal with cold pizza has no place in law enforcement.”

  “I trust the same cannot be said for warm beer.”

  “Good point. Beer’s always better at the proper temperature.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “I’m here.” His eyes scanned both sides of the street for a parking spot on Sylvan. “I’ll call you when I’m on my way back.”

  “Good luck. With the press and with Franklin,” Dorsey said as she hung up.

  Andrew found a spot at the end of the block and parked the rental car. He walked toward the house, thinking about what he’d say once the microphones were turned on and the cameras began to roll. And he thought about what he wanted to ask Franklin about his relationship with Shannon. Dealing with reporters was going to be far easier than accusing a man of molesting his own daughter.

  He was halfway up the Randalls’ driveway before anyone noticed him. He quietly made his way to the front porch, where the door opened before he had time to knock.