Last Look Page 5

  “You weren’t at the academy with Andy.”

  She shrugged. “Guess John forgot.”

  “John doesn’t forget anything.” Matt sat back down in his chair. “So he’s giving you an opening…”

  “Not officially, no. But he’s made it clear he’d turn the other way as long as I was not publicly involved in the investigation and as long as no one knows I’m your daughter. If that gets out, I have to duck and run.”

  “So, in other words, Andy can tell you what he finds out, but you can’t investigate on your own.”

  “Right, but I can shadow Andy and I’ll know if there are any loose strings.”

  “If there are, I’ll expect you to pull them.”

  “Of course.”

  Matt thought it over, then nodded slowly. “I guess that’s as good as it’s going to get.”

  “And we’re damned lucky we got that much. I half expected him to tell me I’d be arrested if I set foot in the state of Georgia.”

  “All right. Do what you have to do without getting fired. In the meantime…” He took his phone out of his pocket and checked the ID of the call coming in. He looked across the room to his daughter. “I can’t keep putting these guys off indefinitely. Sooner or later, I have to talk to them.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t.”

  “I’m no coward, Dorse. Don’t ask me to act like one. If I made a mistake…” His face went white, as the full implication of his having made a mistake sunk in.

  “Just don’t talk to anyone for a while, okay?” She walked to him and knelt down. She understood what had just occurred to him, and knew he must be in terrible pain as a result. “We’re going to find out what happened, Pop, back then, and now. We’ll put it all together, I promise.”

  “Jesus, Dorse, I can’t believe this is happening.” He ran a hand through his hair, then rubbed it across his chin. “I remember it like it was yesterday. Beale all but admitted that he’d killed her.”

  “After how many hours of questioning, Pop?”

  He shot her a look.

  “Listen, the first thing I was told when I showed up in Hatton was that the cops knew who did it, that the kid had all but come right out and confessed. They told me this kid, Beale, had had the hots for Shannon Randall big time, but other than let him drive her home from school once in a while, she didn’t have any use for him. We spoke to her girlfriends, they all said the same thing. And he admitted to having picked her up late that afternoon; one of her friends said she saw the girl in his car an hour or so after he claimed to have dropped her off, and that the car was heading out of town, in the direction of the lake. He finally admitted the girl had been in his car-he couldn’t keep denying it because we found her things in his car. But he said he never left town, so we know he lied about that.”

  “Because a witness saw him.”

  “Right. And you know yourself, one lie leads to another. A suspect lies about one thing, chances are he’s lying about something else.”

  “Did he ever confess, Pop?” she asked softly. “You were there when he was executed. Did he ever admit that he killed her?”

  “No.” Matt suddenly looked like a balloon that was leaking air. His voice dropped and he could not meet her gaze. “No, even then, at the end, he didn’t admit to a damned thing. Still swore he was innocent.”

  “Pop, we’re going to have to consider that he was telling the truth.”

  “Jesus, Dorse, if I made a mistake,” he whispered, as if he’d not heard a word she’d spoken. “If I was wrong back then, that means…”

  He looked at her through eyes dark with growing despair. “If Eric Beale did not kill Shannon Randall…dear God, I sent an innocent kid to his death. God forgive me, I watched an innocent boy die…”

  Matt stood at the end of the drive and watched his daughter’s car grow smaller and smaller, then finally disappear around the first bend on Dune Road. He sighed and looked up at the sky as if hoping to see something other than what he saw every time he’d closed his eyes since Dorsey had given him the incredible news: Eric Beale’s face moments before his execution, eyes wide with fear and confusion, skin so pale as to be almost transparent, mouth moving in prayer.

  His stomach wrenching, Matt went into the house and directly to the bathroom, where he dry heaved for the fourth time that day.

  When he was done, he went back outside, hoping to find a place to sit and figure out what to do next, but he was uncomfortable everywhere he went. He set out on foot down Dune in the same direction Dorsey had driven. The cattails grew twelve feet tall along this side of the marsh, and he was just as glad for it. There’d be little traffic this time of day, but he had no desire to stop and chat with whoever might be driving through.

  He was still working on getting past denial, to a phase where he could think. He’d lain awake all night trying to make sense of it all. How could something that had seemed so certain, so sure, have been so insanely wrong?

  He walked along the sandy shoulder to where Dune met up with Hook Road, and took a right onto Hook, barely noticing what he was doing and giving no thought to where he was going. His pace quickened as he neared the inlet where the old lighthouse lay in ruins. The road narrowed to one wide dirt lane and a bit more, and the tall reeds on either side gave him little shelter from the sun overhead. Some slight breeze set the grasses dancing, their hushed rattle the only sound other than his breathing and his footfalls.

  The lunch spot that had once been housed in the base of the light was gone now, pushed down in a hurricane several years ago. The roof had collapsed to one side, and swallows had come to build nests almost as soon as the rain had stopped falling and the wind had ceased to blow. They swooped around Matt as if they barely noticed his presence. He walked past the lighthouse to the sturdy pilings that still stood like fearless sentinels and looked across the inlet to the bay.

  He exhaled deeply and blinked back the tears behind his dark glasses.

  He walked to the end of the rickety pier with no thought that it could very well collapse under his weight and lowered himself so that he was sitting with his feet dangling just above the water. He remembered another time, a lifetime ago, when he’d sat in this very spot with Bernie. He’d been nervous as all get-out, the engagement ring in his pocket and his heart in his throat. He tried really hard, but he couldn’t see her there anymore. He remembered how she looked, her dark auburn hair pulled back in a ponytail, sunglasses perched on the edge of her nose, her legs long and tan-but he just couldn’t see her there.

  All he could see in his mind’s eye was Eric Beale sitting at the table between two public defenders-both fresh out of law school, the low men on the county’s legal totem pole-as the trial had progressed.

  Matt squeezed his eyes shut against the image, but it was still there. The boy’s mother and father sat next to each other but apart, a void between them, the kind of void that sits between strangers. Matt had never seen them speak to anyone, not even each other, so detached were they from the proceedings. He remembered thinking how odd it was, the way the parents had never turned to each other for comfort throughout the entire trial, as if each had shut out everyone else. Someone had told him that they were both alcoholics, and he had wondered if that might explain the sense of disconnect he had when he looked at them. Especially the father. Matt had never gotten the feeling that the father was actually there in the courtroom with the rest of them the way the mother was.

  Jeanette, her name was, Matt just remembered that. Jeanette Beale sat through every minute of every day as if watching a movie she wasn’t enjoying. Her eyes rarely left her son. The father, on the other hand, showed up sporadically, and even then hadn’t seemed to be affected by what was going on.

  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 Be
ale 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 ret
rieve 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.”