Last Look (6 page)

Matt was aware it was only a matter of time before his phone began to ring and he’d have to answer it. He’d told Dorsey he wasn’t afraid to face the press, that he wasn’t a coward, and he’d meant it. What he hadn’t said was that he was afraid he’d have to face Jeanette Beale and explain to her how he’d been so wrong. That his mistakes had caused the son she’d obviously loved to die.

There was just no damned way he could make this right. The best he could hope for was to figure out where he’d gone wrong—and God knew that wouldn’t be consolation to anyone.

The box with his notes on this case was in the attic back home. He needed to get his hands on the old files, find some quiet place where no one could find him, where he could go over every word of every report without being disturbed by ringing phones, so he could reconstruct the entire thing in his head, until he understood and could explain to himself how he could have been so far from the truth. Then maybe he could explain to her—to Jeanette Beale, whose eyes had never left her son. Those eyes had expressed no shock when the conviction was read, nor when the death sentence had been announced, almost as if she’d expected no less than this from her life.

Matt needed to understand, not so that he could offer excuses when the cameras caught up to him and the microphones were shoved in his face, but so that he would have the strength to face her, to tell her what had gone wrong, to explain to her how he and the system had failed her son. How he had failed her. How regardless of what else in life had let her down, she should have been able to count on him to find the truth, and on justice being done.

He reached up and grabbed one of the pilings, pulled himself to his feet, and stood for one moment more to watch the gulls dive for the small fish that swam close to shore. On the way back to the house, he took his cell phone from his pocket and dialed a number. He knew just the place where he could hide out and relive the past for a few days.

“Hey, Diane? Matt. Yeah, great, thanks. Yes, I got your message. You said something about taking your boat out on the Chesapeake for a few days? I think I changed my mind. Yeah, sure. I can be ready to leave in the morning….”

4

Another airport. Another rental car. Another winding country road heading toward another marsh. Dorsey couldn’t help but make the parallels between where she’d been yesterday and where she was today.

The big difference was that Hathaway Beach had not been the scene of a recent murder, a murder certain to gain national attention once it became known this was the case that had made Matt Ranieri, if not a household name, certainly a recognizable one.

Shelter Island was located off Georgia’s coast, a pretty, privately owned island which had once been the exclusive domain of a family named Sheldrake. In the early-1800s, Horace Sheldrake purchased the island from its original owners and turned it into one big cotton plantation. The mansion Horace built for his family had since been renovated and was now a luxury hotel. Much of the rest of the small island had been turned into a private golf course. If you wanted to play the course, you booked a room or a suite or perhaps one of the small guest cottages, and you played for free. Otherwise, you didn’t play at all.

The island lay across a two-lane bridge. At its foot, Dorsey took a right turn and followed a sandy patch of road to Calvin’s Crab House. Special Agent Andrew Shields had promised he’d be waiting at two o’clock. She was fifteen minutes early, time enough, she figured, to get her bearings.

She parked next to a battered station wagon and left the air-conditioned comfort of the Taurus and stepped into the muggy world of Low Country summer. The thick air held the distinct odor of fish and the hum of insects. She walked to the wooden deck that surrounded the ramshackle structure and looked for the door.

She was halfway around the building—still looking—when she heard her name. She glanced down to the dock below and saw a tall, dark-haired man looking up.

“Dorsey Collins?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll be right up.” He waved, then turned back to the man he’d been speaking with.

Dorsey leaned over the railing and watched a small boat pass under the bridge and head to the dock where the two men stood. Of course, the man who’d called to her was Andrew Shields. She’d have recognized him anywhere. Not because they’d met before, but because she knew several of the other members of the Shields clan and rumor had it they all bore a striking resemblance: tall, athletically built, dark hair and eyes, strong features. Dorsey had worked a case, early in her career, with Aidan Shields, Andrew’s cousin. Even from this far away, the resemblance was unmistakable.

When he reached the top of the step, he put out his hand. “Andrew Shields.”

“Dorsey Collins.” She accepted the hand he offered and shook it. “But I would have recognized you.”

“Because I look like my…who? Brother? Cousin? All of the above? And you worked with one of them at some point.”

“Actually, I did work with Aidan a few years back. And I was in a criminal investigation class with Grady when I was at the academy.” She hesitated before asking, “How is Grady?”

“About as you might expect.” He brushed the query aside and gestured to the front of the building. “Let’s go in and grab a bite, and we’ll talk.”

She followed him around the corner of the building, and stepped inside when he held the door for her. There was one large square room with a dozen or more tables for four set here and there. He gestured to one that had a view of the water below.

“Is this okay?”

“Fine. Thanks.” Dorsey seated herself, placed her handbag on the edge of the table, and reached for the menu.

“Don’t bother with the menu,” he said as he sat across from her. “They only have a few selections, and I can tell you from experience that this place makes the absolute best Low Country boil you will ever taste.”

“What’s in it?”

“Sausage, shrimp, potatoes, corn, spices…it’s really a treat.”

“Sold.”

“What would you like to drink?” he asked. “I can recommend the beer and the iced tea. Anything else, you’re on your own.”

“I’m guessing they don’t have much call for light beer here.”

“You’d be right.” He smiled. “Draught okay?”

“Sure.”

He pushed back his chair and walked to the bar on the opposite side of the room to place their order. Someone dropped coins into an ancient jukebox, and Otis Redding started singing about watching the tide roll away.

“He was from Georgia, you know.” Andrew returned with two glasses of beer.

“Who?”

“Otis Redding.”

“Oh.” She smiled her thanks for the beer and took a sip. It was delightfully cold. “I didn’t know.”

Andrew tapped his fingers on the table, then said, “So, let’s cut to the chase. What is it you want?”

“You’re kidding, right?” She almost laughed in his face. “I thought I made myself clear on the phone.”

“On the phone you said you wanted to stop down to talk with me. You’re here. Now I’m asking what you want.”

She stared at him hard across the table. “Please don’t play games with me, Andrew. You know why I’m here.”

He returned the stare for a long moment.

“Look, I don’t know what John Mancini told you….” She stopped and said, “Maybe we should start there. What exactly did he tell you?”

“He told me that you’d be calling, which you did, and that you’d be interested in the Shannon Randall investigation. You mentioned that on the phone as well. He also said you’d probably want to play an active role but I was to keep your fingerprints off everything. He did say he explained to you exactly what that meant.”

“He did.”

“But what he didn’t say was whether or not his terms were acceptable to you.”

“I don’t recall him saying there was a choice.”

“There isn’t.”

“So what part don’t you understand?”

“I don’t know what your expectations are, Dorsey. I don’t know what you’re hoping to find.”

The bartender waved to Andrew that their order was ready, and he excused himself. Dorsey watched him walk to the bar and retrieve the tray holding two steaming crocks of spicy stew. He set one in front of Dorsey and the other at his place, then set the tray on the table behind him.

“They’ve been short on help all week,” he explained as he sat back down in his chair. “Go ahead. Give it a try.”

She tasted a bit of shrimp. “It’s spicy.”

“I probably should have warned you.”

“No, it’s fine. Delicious, really.”

They ate for a few minutes in silence.

“Look, I’m not trying to be a hard-ass.” He leaned across the table and lowered his voice. “I just need to know that you understand exactly how sensitive this is.” There was something almost naively earnest in the way he was looking at her.

“Of course I understand.”

“If anyone suspected that Matt Ranieri’s daughter was anywhere near this investigation—”

“I said I understood.”

“Convince me.”

“I am not to sign any reports, I may not talk to anyone without you present, I may not speak with the media, and I may not initiate anything without your knowledge.”

“I’m sure John told you it was a take-it-or-leave-it situation.”

“Obviously, I took it.”

“But you still didn’t answer my original question. What is it you want?”

“You mean, ultimately?”

“Yes.”

“I want to know the truth. If this woman is definitely Shannon Randall, I want to know where the hell she’s been all these years. And how did she get there? And why?” She placed both hands flat on the table in front of her and stared down for a long time. “And I want to know what happened that night back in 1983. If she knew that Eric Beale had been arrested, tried, and convicted of murdering her. Was she aware he’d been executed?”

“The only thing I didn’t hear you say is that you want to exonerate your father of Eric Beale’s death. You know, of course, that if Beale didn’t kill Shannon, your father is going to be accused of rushing to judgment, of leading the team that prosecuted an innocent man. Of being responsible for his death.”

“If Beale didn’t kill Shannon, my father has a lot to answer for. I am aware of that. So is he.” She nodded slowly. “Believe me, no one is more aware than he is.”

“And you really think you could be impartial? We may find things that could make your father look really, really bad.”

“I am aware of that possibility, yes.” She sat stiffly now, uncomfortable under his scrutiny.

“You don’t think you’re going to be tempted to influence me to bury facts or to—”

“I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that.” Her temper flared. “You can ask anyone I’ve ever worked with, they’ll tell you I don’t give a shit about anything but the bottom line.”

“Which is?”

“The truth, of course.”

“Even if the truth destroys your father.”

“Whatever the outcome, he’ll have to deal with it.” She said softly. “And so will I.”

“And he knows you’re doing this?”

“He encouraged it.” She tried to smile. “Since they wouldn’t let him back on the job to do it himself.”

“He didn’t really expect…” Andrew frowned.

“Of course not.” This time the smile was genuine, if weak. “But he wants to know. Something convinced him back then that Beale killed the girl, that there was no other explanation for her disappearance. If he missed something, he needs to know.”

“And Beale?”

“My father will have to find a way to make his peace with it. I can help find the truth, but I won’t be able to help him deal with the consequences. We both know that.”

“All right, then.” Andrew drained his beer. “Finish up, and we’ll go for a ride. I’ll drive.”

“The body was found here.” Andrew pointed to a slight depression in the sea grass that grew in thin clumps on the side of the dune.

“Who found her?”

“One of the guests at Sheldrake Hall was out jogging early in the morning, and tripped over the body.”

Dorsey stood on the gravel path and looked at the dump site. “Whoever left her here had to know she’d be found before too long.”

“Maybe they were hoping the gators would get to her first.”

“This is a salt marsh,” she said as she knelt to take a closer look. “Gators live in fresh water.”

“Right, but maybe whoever dumped her here didn’t know that.”

“Maybe whoever dumped her here just wanted to get rid of her.” She swatted at a mosquito that flew directly at her face. “Cheeky bugger,” she muttered.

“Or, as you said, wanted to make certain her body would be discovered quickly.” Andrew looked over his shoulder in the direction of the main house, which was hidden from view by a long row of gnarled live oaks that formed an allée from the main road to the front door. “It could have been brought in by car under cover of night. The guests and employees of the inn have all been interviewed, and no one saw or heard anything that night. But the bartender back at the Crab Shack says he saw a light-colored van coming down off the bridge when he was locking up that night. Said it was around ten after three.”

“No make or year on that van?”

“He said it was going fast. He just saw that it was a light van.”

“Maybe the body was brought by boat,” Dorsey suggested.

“A boat would have been seen or heard. Because of the way the currents run, the only safe place to moor is to the immediate left of the old house. Which is why the dock was placed there. A car would actually have been the best way on and off the island if someone was trying to avoid being seen.”

“How was the body left?” Dorsey stood and slapped at the back of her neck.

“Laid on her back, her hands crossed over her stomach. Legs straight out in front of her. I have photos in the car, I’ll show you later.”

“So she wasn’t just tossed out of the car. Someone took the time to lay her carefully on the ground.”

“Right. Which means this is probably no random killing.” Andrew nodded. “Her clothes were carefully arranged, even the short skirt she was wearing was pulled down as far as it would go.”

“No sexual assault?” Another slap, this one on her left hand.

“No. Not that the ME could tell, anyway. Remember, she was a working girl. There were signs of recent sexual activity, but according to her roommate, she’d been working that night.”

“So there’s no way of knowing if she’d had sex with her killer. If he was one of her johns…”

“Right now, we know nothing,” Andrew agreed.

Dorsey knelt again to inspect the grasses. “She wasn’t killed here. There would have been blood.”

“Right. There was no indication she was killed here.”

“So, where do we start?” Dorsey shoved her hands into the pockets of her linen pants, which had looked so crisp when she’d put them on earlier that morning but were now full of wrinkles. She should have worn jeans. “Why aren’t you swatting?”

“They’re not bothering me.”

“That’s really annoying.”

“Sorry. And it’s not where do
we
start. It’s where am I on the investigation, which is already underway.”

“Right.” She bristled but nodded her understanding.

“I’ve spoken with the roommate briefly, but I got very little out of her. I did take a few notes, which I’ll let you read, along with the statement she gave the police, but we’re going to need to meet with her in person.” He paused as if something had just occurred to him. “Maybe you’ll have more luck with her. She doesn’t seem to have a very high regard for men.”

“Most prostitutes don’t. But I’d be happy to talk to her, if you think it will help.”

“And I’ll want to talk to the family, back in South Carolina. I haven’t been in touch with them yet, though I understand the state police have been. Once the locals realized what they had, they couldn’t get rid of it fast enough.”

“So I’ve heard.” She turned slightly and looked out at the sea, where dark clouds were gathering and a storm was just beginning to move toward the shore. Even from the opposite side of the island, she could hear the waves pounding on the beach. The air was still, except for the hum of the mosquitoes that seemed to grow louder with every minute. She swatted at the air near her right ear and smacked her left arm.

“That’s it. I’ve had enough for one day. I say we head inland, away from these goddamn little flying vampires.”